Writing Forums

Writing Forums is a privately-owned, community managed writing environment. We provide an unlimited opportunity for writers and poets of all abilities, to share their work and communicate with other writers and creative artists. We offer an experience that is safe, welcoming and friendly, regardless of your level of participation, knowledge or skill. There are several opportunities for writers to exchange tips, engage in discussions about techniques, and grow in your craft. You can also participate in forum competitions that are exciting and helpful in building your skill level. There's so much more for you to explore!

LM Poetry Challenge - 11/26/07 | Theatre (1 Viewer)

Not open for further replies.


Welcome to the first installment of the LM Poetry challenge. We hope for it to be every bit as enjoyable and successful as it was when Baron was handling it in the Poetry forums. If you have any questions about the challenge, want to discuss it, or just want to chat about poetry in general, stop by The Bard's Bistro.

Without further adieu, let's get the ball to rolling.

The winner of the last poetry challenge was Huni, but because of personal matters that arose, she was unable to choose the them for this challenge. So the decision passed to Baron, who finished in second place. The theme of this challenge is:


Continuing with tradition, contestants are allowed to be loose with their interpretation of the theme. In this instance, theatre can be viewed as anything that might be regarded as a "staged production". Stretch you creative muscles and let your imagination take over.

Submissions can be posted as a reply in this thread. All submissions must be titled. The submission period will run for one week/seven days and will close at midnight on 12/3/07.

The first stage of voting will take the form of a people's choice vote, where all submissions will be voted on by the general public to move forward to the final judging round. The people's choice voting will run for one week.

Poems moving forward from the people's choice vote will then go to a panel of judges for the judging stage. During this stage, each judge will score poems using a 100 point system and will comment on each giving their reasons for the score they gave. The judging stage will last for one week/seven days.

Scores, reviews, and winners will be posted on 12/17/07.

Your judges for this round are:
Ilasir Maroa
Pete C

Thanks to all four of them for graciously accepting my request for them to judge. Through their own work and their understanding of poetry, each is well suited to serve as judges. Give them a hand and let them know they are appreciated.

I believe that about covers it. This being the first challenge, I gave more details here than there normally will be. Complete details can always be read by checking out the sticky threads here in the LM Poetry Challenge forum.

So: Ready, set, write!

Good luck to everyone and have fun!
Last edited:


Senior Member

Awesome theme idea, Baron! I enjoyed writing this.


I have the secret! The only way to be happy is:

Keep in mind that you’re always playing!
You’re always being an actor (even when your character is not aware of this).

The issue is MOTIVATION.

Often, the curtain’s still closed,
but we paint our expectations
with brushes glowing soul-sauce;

and ranging in size from​
all-encompassing generalities

(points) <-- so specific they escape all eyes.​

Into golden summer mornings.
Children running, free
from book-weighted backpacks,
They explore their own trees.​
Into dark-brown hot-humid stench-messes,
and stomach turning walls—
Every physical fear, cognitive dread,
engulfing your awareness.​

Your thoughts. Your character (it's all motivation).​

But hey, don’t go crazy,
we’re just minds changing states.
Don’t intrude on other’s trips
like time persists to fit your tastes.

Just realize: You’re your own creation,
Everyway you act: It’s all MOTIVATION!


Senior Member
A fatal kiss

It can’t end like this,
I’ve not yet rehresed the kiss.
She’s not right for me,
“But” says director lee,
“You’re an actor it’s your job”
But my wife will bring an angry mob!

Its just not fair what do I do?
Im sure my wife will divorce and sue,
If I don’t continue with the play,
They’ll all just call me gay,
Those fellow actors who lost the part,
It’s not my fault im so smart.
That im so good at acting too,
That I showed them my patented “moo”!

My wife will make sure that im dead,
Lightly here I’ve got to tread,
Or when the burial comes, the funeral fee,
She’ll send that straight to me!

Oh my god she’s coming here,
Her lips to my face she will smear,
To my arse, ill soon part.
It’s not my fault she’s such a tart!

Here she comes, it’s all over!
Right here, right in Dover!
Her lips are coming to my face,
She’s moving at an uncertain pace.

She made contact im a goanna!
And there’s my wife, evil vallona.
If only I could live,
Son and wife, id be with.

I just can’t see why I took drama,
I’d rather now, work in a sauna.
But it all comes down to this,
This, that, the fatal kiss.

Down I go, onto the stage,
I wonder if my wife’s anger I can gauge.
Oh thank god, the curtains close,
As for me my wife must loath!

I did my bit I played my part,
That wasn’t very smart!
Oh my god, such a bummer,
At least I get a five-minute head start runner!
Last edited:



Stale sweat and heat
smell of sweet smoke
floats and caresses senses on edge
__________mind glides
caught in casual anticipation

all eyes fixed on a point
spotlight makes the stage appear
__________empty and waiting

_____expectation hovers
__________tangible form
a void waits to be filled
_____looks for her

_____agile feline movement
sway to rhythmic pound
_____bass throbs a beat
_____strikes the groin
in time to her approach

body moving in
_____of sensual spotlight
dancing curves hypnotic motion
alighting on the pole to display
__________to play
_____linger for a moment

then remove the cover
__open the book
__________turn the pages
pick the poem she has chosen
_____to read
__with the beat
_____this night
Last edited by a moderator:


WF Veterans
Act One
Chrysalis: Forming the Moth

Capture a cloud, Elizabeth,
then bring it home for a closer look.
Lie inside the hovering vapor,
feel it shift and shape,
encasing you
like icy, growing, skin.
Inhale its breath,
become its part
in that place where you are lost
and it is found.

Do you hear a thunder, Elizabeth,
when the candle is lit inside,
and it rains
your shimmering, silver, gown?
Illusion becomes you,
when the curtain dissolves,
and the moth happens.
You rise to it
with a flame in each eye,
then you step
into the fire.
Last edited:


WF Veteran
WF Veterans
The Play

The Play

Cautious footfalls
from wooden darkness.
A word floats
from the void.

Emotion erupts,
illumination glints,
swirls, airborne dust
sparks rise with

projected penetrative plot
unfolding like musty cloth,
rich, tenuous, lines,
epicurean movements

Dusty curtains,
canvas walls,
wooden braces
hold it all.
Voices hold us

Players hold us:
make believe.
The audience lives
within the dream

‘til the thrumming
of dialog dies;
the PAR light
filaments cool.

The spent play stands
naked, exposed before all
its critics.
Last edited:


WF Veterans
The Theatre of Things You Already Knew

The bright white spotlight fingers the darkness.
Intrusively. Like an unwanted guest.
Above. The trapeze swings. To and fro.
Enjoy the show. Whoosh. She’s flying now.
Back and forth. Like some beetle. Scurrying
in the shit. See her go. She’s building speed.
Now she’s cracking. Skirt flapping. Legs spread and
cunt showing. Below the punters peer.
Leer. Fat fingers caress the stems
of Martini glasses. Now she’s moving.
But always there. Inside she’s bleeding. She’s needing
something. The pain devours. She’s breaking up.
Behind her trails her parchment skin. So thin
and feathery. Her codeine grin
masking reality. That codeine ate her to the bone.

Sometimes it all feels fixed. Like all they
can do. Is turn the handle. And grind.
The meat spiralling out. As the handle
turns. And the people call for more.
Fresh meat for the grinder. And each new load.
Just makes more space. And there is
nothing to do with space. But to fill it.

Sometimes she dreams
of better times. Of a family.
Of love and honour. Honour and obey.
Of a house with a garden. The rooms
filled with smell of baking bread.
The garden alive with birdsong. A willow
weeping onto manicured lawns.
But the dreams are shattered.
Smashed dashed destroyed violated
cremated crushed and left desolate.
By the screams of the aborted.
Sucked out. Fucked off. Hoovered up
before their eyes saw the light of day.
Their lungs too weak to breathe.
In and out. In and out. And relax.
Too weak to suck in air. But strong enough
to cry her name in blame
for their plight.

The lights flash. The drums drum like rolling thunder.
She’s flying now. The crowd watch with all those eyes.
Pinned on her as she flies. They applaud.
Hands clapping. Two hands clapping. What is
the sound? She’s crying. Tears fall
like diamonds. Sparkling in midair.
Ice. Crushed ice like crushed dreams.
That empty space. That needs filling.
That need. Eating away at her. In the darkest
corner. Of this theatre. Of things
she already knew.

In the street the sickly blue light
glows. The ticket office man goes about
his business. Small girls gather giggling.
He winks a bloodshot eye. They laugh and lean away
so the hems of their skirts
rise. He rises with them. Flesh works
like that. Young and taut and needing to be taught.
Unashamedly erect. They laugh and
shout. Hey Mister, how much to see the show?
He winks again and answers.
Darling, it will cost you
more than you will ever.
Last edited:


[FONT=Tahoma, sans-serif]Death Scene[/FONT]

He adressed the empty
room of his tomb- dead
and dead set on negotiating
the initiation of the battle
for his immortal soul:

“In the company of vultures,
I ran rivers of blood
where heavan touches
rock to find your ears,
i fashioned a nation, an
army to deal with you,
my felons sculpted musicians,
cities, work horses, birds
to flesh your worlds...”

Placed there by craftsmen,
hands unable to forget
the tableux from their youth,
round dishes, up and down
table legs, amongst eaves,
in architeture, mythical beasts
stirred, stretched their talons,
found voice, the winged took
flight, fired earth pigment
robes swished, tousled hair
came undone, dialects bantered
as lines began to waver,
strings tuned...

The 1st emperor's eyes flicked open
to the sounds of gushing waters
beneath the spotlights of infinities' stars
he continued his address...
Last edited:


Senior Member
Big Night Mocks Rehearsals

Big Night Mocks Rehearsals

Seven thousand faceless faces
applaud my cool façade
as I dress the stage,
take my role.

Lights scorch tacky make up,
costume constricts,
suffocates lines
I’m paid to deliver.

Hands burn, shake, sweat, freeze;
anxious knotted guts;
and leading lady
watch me piss my pants.


Senior Member
The Flea Circus

The Flea Circus

Fleas in a flea circus,
forced to comply;
doing tricks, and playing games,
or so the viewer views.
What they're really seeing though--
puppets tied to strings.

Through unseen dirty deeds,
they're meant to think it's true...

Gaining lucre for the swindler,
it gives nothing back to him--
because it's only fraud.
Last edited:


Senior Member

OLD MAN: I saw a wonderful play the other day.

YOUNG MAN: Yeah? Which one?

OLD: Oh, same-old; I'm not sure of the name.... just opened my front door, and the players were up and going already.

[A large truck passes by them as they stand on the sidewalk. The roar is let to fade before any more words are exchanged, a quick-tempered glare still lingering on the young man's face as he watches the truck drive out of sight]

YOUNG: Wait. There was a theatrical production just outside your house?

OLD: And how! All types of people, an airplane lumbering overhead, weekend children running wild, even the pigeons seemed livelier and more vibrant. I tossed a few crumbs out of my coat pocket, and felt happy listening to the little stream's sullen monologue as it sidled through the near-by park. It was the best play I'd seen in years.

YOUNG: Don't be ridiculous. That's reality, everyday life. Peanuts. You should always be so pleased then, if you think the ordinary things to be good theatre.

OLD: I would have to be ridiculous, you're right, to think all ordinary things to be good theatre. Like this: this is theatre, but it can't hope to be any better than the breadth of its beauty. It falls short, I'm afraid. But you never know, this meeting could become as beautiful as the signs of spring.

[To the left of them, a tearful woman greets a tired, handsome man. He kisses her, and hugs her tight to his chest for minutes, as if they had been separated by worlds for an impossible length of time. The bough of a willow tree blocks them from view, and the two men come back down to Earth]

OLD: Alas, it's the extraordinary things in life that grip me. Like that play I was telling you about... magnificent, charming... so very real and affecting, as when a man loves a woman. Do you hear that stream now? I swear it's singing!

YOUNG: I've seen many productions, and I would not compare any normal scene outside my front door to genuine theatre. Drama, maybe... Nonetheless, I'll leave you with this: you're words are feathers fit for the stage, at least. Nonsense. Blind sensitivity.

OLD: Yes, faith has often to be blind as well. What a shame. But if the scenery out your front door feels artless, try the back. Or try the window, or the balcony. Because, I submit to you, as awful or boring or pitiful it seems at times: the whole world's a stage.

[A taxicab pulls up with a splash. The young man quickly opens the back door, pulls up his coatsleeve and checks his wristwatch. He rolls his eyes, and looks to the old man expectantly.]

YOUNG: Well... going my way?

OLD: Thank you kindly. Indeed our ends are the same, though I would much rather take my time with it.
Last edited:


Da Boss Emeritus
Life in Theatre

This is my role, I tell myself
in deep breaths, straining against
the demons who know fear. Silent,
staring from some distant beyond,
impatient to hear again the words
which are my cue to enter, and those
of my teachers through years of practice;
rehearsals and replays of every move,
driven to learn every detail.

This is my life, I tell myself
in the mirror, checking the costume
that defines the moment, outlines
the movement, and illustrates my part
in the unfolding mystery. Masked,
hooded and gloved, the villain
damned or the hero who defies
death and saves the victim;
will anyone know, even at the climax?

This is my time, I tell myself
in measured steps, each one closer
to the blazing lights which hide
the eager, the hushed, the critical
audience awaiting my performance.
I cannot see them, nor hear them;
there are only my fine instruments,
my supporting cast, and my unknown co-star,
illuminated under the lights.
I expose my blade, and without trembling,
I manage to speak.

"I shall now make the first incision ..."
Last edited:
Number Twelve

The players alight the stage,
hooked beaks flashing
before the spot unfolds its glow around their carefully placed limbs

See the stretch of tongues
and fine web of veins crossing carefully
the path of alighted voices:

One says, clear as a ringing choir,
he dreamt a road yesterday of infinite stretch and cracked skin
blood in its divots, whorls of tired tar
and yellow-painted DNA

I didn’t know, he says,
whether to be alarmed or simply spotted.
After all, Life stages the set for a purpose, he says,
and if the set were always beautiful
there would be no contrast.

Pt. II

The crowd applauds with their teeth out,
incisors slicing the oxygen
and the one who spoke takes a long, profuse bow

He smiles and wipes the corner
off of his mouth, with a fiendish silk hankerchief

His hands are a diffused –
blotchy milk-white
with long bony fingers,
and when he addresses his audience once more
it is between them.

I still can’t decide, he says,
if I should have crashed my weight
upon that frightening, indefinite tar.
Or if I should have averted my stare and left the road in peace.
Left its inhabitants to live sweetly.

Well, what did you do? Asks an audience member.
Mouth stained deep red,
he raises a heavy hand in gesture of the question.
His fingernails are brackish, colored and filled
with a moist crust of dirt and blood.

The one who first spoke peers hollow into the crowd,
I took my hands, he says,
and I picked up the nearest creature I could find.
Pushing my thumbs into its soft stomach
it arose the sharpest wail
and as I continued, the fluid built and erupted
in a hot crimson flow across me.
I held the weight of the steaming skin for only a moment
before casting it to the side of the road.

After the first,
I merely moved down the infinite blooded crags of road tar
and continued my process,
staging the set for beauty
to make a bigger splash.
This is the beauty now, he says.

The member of the audience stands, with his wife
both are colored a terrifying red
The veins between their words bulge
Are you a monster? They cry,
curling twin pairs of crashing lips.
The man upon the stage smiles cheerfully
No I am an artist, he replies.
And you my beauty.
Last edited:
Not open for further replies.