The inevitable poetry thread

[Whart]

My cousin Olaf made this one up:

I will hit you with this log,
Berserker!
Do you want to worship Trog,
Berserker!

[joellercoaster]

(Did he just say "worship Trog"?)

[varkarrus]

Exploring Dungeons
Wonder what's behind this door
Oh shit, it's death yaks.

[Stormfox]

Exploring Dungeons
Wonder what's behind this door
Oh shit, it's death yaks.

Oh s***, it's Mennas.

Fixed that for you.

[tcjsavannah]

Curare needle
Great dungeon find, unless it's
sticking in your rear

[sigfried von murdock]

Haiku's and two liners.

No Zotian Sonnets?

[Whart]

Ode to a Deep Dwarf Necromancer

I recall you, whip in hand and casting Pain
And Dispelling the ghost of a Draconian Monk,
Or wading through green waters beyond a drain
Leach'd the life of rats when the last Healing's drunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy unhappy lot,
Too bold did you strange dungeons dare,
So that thou, shield-bearing subterranean sot,
Were splattered by Rupert on the third floor of the Lair.

[mageykun]

Well, the haiku is the lowest common denominator in poetry.

Spriggan Berserker
Guaranteed Victorious
Punk and a quick blade

Anything else takes a lot more time and effort.

...which, if you think about it, means the haiku is a completely inappropriate form for rougelike appreciation. We need to get some convoluted insanity in here- something esoteric, with a small but devoted following, and preferably a body count. Something where the beat is expressed as an irrational number, with an Escher slant on the rhyme scheme.

[Whart]

I can find a lower denominator than that:

Punk and a quick blade,
Two bits.

[Grimm]

Well done Whart.

[pratamawirya]

How about some rapping?

Once upon a time, there was this Mummy Berserker.
He was doing fine, chopping necks, splatting monsters.
Saw a sling on the ground, lying;
he thought, "Gotta try this thing!"
Bullets and stones showered the band of goons,
all died 'cause this ain't no cartoon!
Kept going, and soon! Got his hands on three runes.
"Why over now?" he said, and so he went much further
to fight Lords like Dispater, with bullets and berserk brothers.
Faced Cerebov, a moment of tension, then back to the dungeon
to snatch the Orb and make the epic ascension!

[Whart]

Still pleased with that sonnet, almost as much as I'm pleased with that topper for the ever-wordy mageykun. I saw a nice Russian rhyme a while back, maybe that could be added?

[defen]

I saw a nice Russian rhyme a while back, maybe that could be added?

Reposting:
To Trog (Russian)

  Code:

Не очень рад своей фигуре,
На лужу направляя взор:
Плешив и вшив, в вонючей щкуре,
В руках ржавеющий топор.

Гляжу: в тени спригганы рыщут,
Все мозгляки и червяки.
Хотят растительную пищю,
Не замарать своей руки...

Да, я червяк, О Трог, мой боже,
Но стать могу великим вновь.
Про плешь никто не пискнет в рожу,
Когда на ней чужая кровь.

Горите ради света, книги.
Очки - для смерти и побед.
Долой, долой мои вериги!
Беру топор, ищу обед.

Топор да гнев да крик да злоба,
Плоть пополам и стали звон!
Я не боюсь кислот оклоба,
Как зажигалка мне дракон.

А если в угол загоняет
Коварный, гнусный супостат,
Мой бог великий выручает:
В бою поможет гневный брат.

О Трог, мой бог, кричу я гордо,
Я Зот ужасный покорил,
И кровь озерами пролил;
Сам Ад моей боится морды!
Прошу: с восхода до зари,
Ори: сорви, сожги, сожри!

To Trog (literal English trans)

  Code:

I am not too happy with my figure
As I lower my gaze to a puddle:
Bald and lousy, clad in a stinking hide,
A rusting axe in my hands.

I see spriggans skulking in the shadows,
All brainy little worms,
Seeking their vegetarian food,
And avoiding sullying their hands.

Yes, I am a worm, O Trog, my god,
But I can become great again.
No one will utter a peep about baldness to one's face
When it is stained with others' blood.

Burn just for the light, o books,
Points are for death or victories*
Begone, begone my shackles!
I grab my axe, I seek my lunch.

Axe and rage and screams and hatred,
Flesh cut in half, the ring of steel!
I do not fear the oklob's acid,
A dragon is as a lighter to me.

And should I be cornered
By a treacherous, vile nemesis,
My great god will bail me out:
An enraged brother will assist me in battle.

O Trog, my god, I cry proudly,
I conquered the horrible Zot,
And spilled lakes of blood;
Hell itself fears my visage.
I beg, from sunrise till twilight,
Scream: Tear, burn, devour.

The Paladin's Fate (English, old)

  Code:

A grand malefic host had gathered
And stood before his righteous blade -
Unnerved, unmanned, and then unmade,
Their brains upon the plains were slathered.
(Their bones, released from flesh's fetter,
Knew not of fear but fared no better).

A decade's peace had lulled the city,
Its folk forever in his debt.
He sighed and thought, "It is a pity:
The only existential threat
My holy powers may divine
Resides, alas, within the wine."
So when the crier brought the news:
"Some sort of monster has infected
The yard where refuse is collected!"
The drunken knight could not refuse.

----------

His visor hid his great delight:
What joy to wield Tunare's* might,
What joy to hear his armor clang!
Beside, a spoony minstrel sang,
"My gentle sir, do not be gentle,
Unleash thy wrath upon the creep!"
And then the lute no longer rang;
An excremental elemental
Arose amid the midden heap!

They clashed and thrashed in brutal battle.
Who'd triumph? It was hard to tell
Between the cries, the ringmail's rattle,
And yes, the fiend's appalling smell.
He lunged; it staggered, roared, and fell.
The pile of crap had crushed the man!
The weeping minstrel turned and ran,
And heard, despite his anguished daze,
A rather unexpected phrase:

"The moral is, o young survivor,"
The mass of feces seemed to say,
"A tonne of dietary fiber
Beats moral fiber any day."

[TehDruid]

NOTE: This is totally random and I just did a hopefully good translating job from the original which was Greek, it might not be all that great. Well, anyhow. Necroposting FTW!

Witnessing the flare of the temporary

Still, we dwell on sophistication.
Still, the butterfly keeps melting under the dry light
of the dusk of the unchanged.

Different is the etching of the nitrogen
behind the shining sunset
and we keep on touching sockets
that have no personality.

Burnt meat, oblique side, white horizon,
paper mill, buckets, TV, sub-woofer.

Because art deserves aged rose water,
of grey distillation,
so many blonde girls are dancing
at the beach with sunburnt artichokes,
well crystallised sugar pie.

All, and I mean ALL the girls will be waiting
with their ovens open
and the synthesizer had pink keys.

The blue asshole painted them.

In case you haven't noticed yet, it has nothing to do with Crawl. Or does it...?

[Grimm]

Mark Alexander Boyd (1563–1601)
Sonet

Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;
Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,
Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.

Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,
Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;
The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,
And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.

Unhappy is the man for evermair
That tills the sand and sawis in the air;
But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,
That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,
And follows on a woman throw the fire,
Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.

[cerebovssquire]

he did not wear his scarlet coat
for blood and wine are red;
and blood and wine were on his hands
when they found him by the dead;
the poor dead dowan whom he slew
and looted in his bed.

he walked among the dungeon halls
in a robe of shabby grey;
a wizard's hat was on his head
and his step seemed light and gay;

but then duvessa killed him.

[Grimm]

Doesn't scan.

[Confidence Interval]

Also, I've never come across Dowan's bed. Maybe you have to play very fast, CS-style, to see that.

[cerebovssquire]

Rather, I imagine that there's a bed nearby whenever I see Dowan and Duvessa.

[Confidence Interval]

Obviously you are turned on by different things than some of us.

[aegis]

My first try on haiku about Grinder

I see him
he sees me, oh
Grinder, you!

[Tarp]

Twas the fire from my claw,
slew the demons white and blue,
and frigid air against the red,
dispel undead 'gainst ghast and grue.
Dragon Form, I'll eat Dowan raw,
(Duvessa's hot although they say she's plain)
Of my smiting spells I am quite proud:
Ignite Poison in the naga's vein.
But when you need to kill stuff dead,
there's nothing like Mephitic Cloud.

Hydras no match for invis+haste;
Should nonliving need instruction,
then I cast Lee's Deconstruction,
though earth's not fully to my taste.
And furthermore with a short blade,
I plan to stab out Lom Lobon,
(did I just say that out loud?)
I must rely on brains, not brawn.
So when I need to kill stuff dead,
There's nothing like Mephitic Cloud.

------------------------------------------------

What is this that I have wrought!?

[Confidence Interval]

I see him
he kills me, oh
Grinder, you!

ftfy

[battaile]

Read as 'invisible poetry thread' and prepared this:

[Grimm]

We've already seen it.

[moocowmoocow]

Centaurs are scary,
Hydras are too,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

[Confidence Interval]

Centaurs are scary,
Hydras are too,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

Nice try but repetition if "too" weakens it.

[battaile]

Centaurs are scary,
Hydras are too,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

Nice try but repetition if "too" weakens it.

Salvage attempt...

Centaurs are scary,
Oozes are goo,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

[moocowmoocow]

I put sugar on my rambutan
And swing my glowing sword.
What is this piece of paper?
It was a scroll of Holy Word.
Down the stairs I stumble,
Through the shoals I swim,
YASD?
No, I've come to win.

[moocowmoocow]

Centaurs are scary,
Hydras are too,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

Nice try but repetition if "too" weakens it.

Salvage attempt...

Centaurs are scary,
Oozes are goo,
Bog bodies stink,
And ur're momma does too.

lol there we go.

[battaile]

I put sugar on my rambutan
And swing my glowing sword.
What is this piece of paper?
It was a scroll of Holy Word.
Down the stairs I stumble,
Through the shoals I swim,
YASD?
No, I've come to win.

This is amazing.

[Bloax]

In the dungeons deep below
lie adventurers here and fro
death came upon them just like the rest
now go ahead and be like the best
and see
if you pass
the test

[Confidence Interval]

I put sugar on my rambutan
And swing my glowing sword.

From the first two lines I thought it was going to go on in a similar vein and need a warning about explicit lyrics.

[moocowmoocow]

I think Yeats was a player of the early pen and paper version of dungeon crawl.

"I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,"

[Grimm]

"With Pan lords random very close behind
You grasp the slippy orb in sweaty fist

bleah

[moocowmoocow]

Oh it wasn't mine should have been more clear I was quoting it

[Grimm]

No I know you were quoting, I was trying to continue and gave up in a sudden attack of apathy.

[moocowmoocow]

ah okay, lol

[Confidence Interval]

How about:

An Orb Guardian Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere down in Zot below;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
That which I guard I do not love

[Grimm]

WHEN you are bored and gray and have some kids
And jones hard for a game, bookmark this thread,
And slowly read, and dream of the cool axe
Your char had once, and of his skilling sweet

[aegis]

Hell:

Spoiler: show

Ein Narr war er,
Gehenna ging er.
Asmodeus der Satan,
ein neues Opfer, er hat.

Cocytus Hölle des Eises,
fror zu die Seele dieser hier.
Antaeus, himmlischer Verräter,
götzt sich dem toten Eis.

Dis, eiserne Stadt der Hölle,
geführt von der eisernen Götze.
Dispater der, der aus Stahl ist,
wacht mit dem Feuer der Hölle.

Tartarus die letzte der Höllen,
vermodernd und sterbend,
wie jene die sich wagten hierhin,
der letzte Test die Hölle bietet.

Über all dem Wachen die tausend Augen,
die tausend Hörner und die Axt der Klage.
Makhleb, der Dämonenkönig, der Mörder,
dies ist sein unheiliges Reich.

[Grimm]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond


by e. e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

[Confidence Interval]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

How clever of you to work in the name of my tournament clan!

[Confidence Interval]

Prufrock.

Spoiler: show

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[moocowmoocow]

A tentacled monstrosity
Scanned the help wanted ads
Of the Japanese porn industry.
Its thirty-three eyes glistened as it read,
“Model for a visual novel needed.”
Thus, the greatest of all hentai was born.
Now you know why there’s tentacle porn.

[prozacelf]

I think your meter is a bit off on that one. But I appreciate the historical accuracy.

[moocowmoocow]

I think your meter is a bit off on that one. But I appreciate the historical accuracy.

[aegis]

Sigmund the,
crazy bastard,
massmurder.

Why do the uniques only have 3 or 4 mori in their name.

[aegis]

I wanted to write a Haiku but this post is flooded by them. Does anybody knows other forms of poetry?

[Grimm]

No.