Even the demons

TenJam

I wrote this about year ago...
and again, if there are any erros in writing, please let me know, thanks

*****
Even The Demons by TenJam

Demons in my head,
hunting and praying my death.

Whispers in my mind,
telling me that there's still something left.

To see, to feel, to love, and to dream.

The pain is something that I'm used to.
But the anger doesn't leave me any hints.
How should I stand or go through it?

Even the demons are confused.

*****

catefrances

yes, yes more please.

chadwick

yea um, can i kick these demons in the nuts for ya? haha..
and yes, share more of your work with us..
you are doing great..
thank you..

FinsburyParkCarrots

The only grammatical suggestion I would make is, "hunting" is a transitive verb, whereas in the case of your poem, "praying" is intransitive. Really, you need to say "praying for my death". Yet that might lose some of the punning of preying/praying which the line suggests. So, you could get around this by saying,

Demons in my head,
hunting, preying,
praying for my death

or suchlike. Or you might want to select new verbs that conflate the thought you're having more precisely.

I appreciate that English might not be your first language, so some of the nuances of the original piece are lost in translation. Nonetheless, you could continue to work on this poem, even though it's a decade old!

I am reminded of Hamlet's famous soliloquy, in Act three scene one, which makes a discourse out of infinitives, for example:

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of? (from Hamlet, 3.1)


Hope my comments have been of use.

TenJam

catefrances wrote:

yes, yes more please.

Did you really liked it? Thank you
Your answer made me cry...

FinsburyParkCarrots

A decade? I meant "a year". I was listening to the radio, talking about the past decade, and typed "decade" by mistake.

TenJam

to FinsburyParkCarrots,

Thank you for your comments My English isn't so good,
so it's hard to write exactly what I have in my mind.

I'll read your comments over and over again,
I hope I'll learn sometimes

p.s. a decade/a year almost the same thing

catefrances

TenJam wrote:

Did you really liked it? Thank you
Your answer made me cry...

of course i did.
i would not have said so otherwise. i am not so free with my compliments that would just be a reflex action.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Oh, a poetic sensibility is a priceless gift, and it shines regardeless one's perceived technical shortcomings. I've read self-proclaimed poets on other forums, not here but elsewhere on the Internet, who craft their work to death! As Ted Hughes said, a poem should put its footprint on the imagination like a beautiful animal you can clearly visualise. Your pieces have that quality, which continued writing can only encourage! Thank you.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Excuse my typing there. It's not easy to pour a beer, think and type at the same time.

TenJam

chadwick, feel free to kick my demons

catefrances, I'm not used to compliments, so that's why I asked.

Thank you all for your kind answers

chadwick

finsburyparkcarrots..a poem is/should be a footprint in ones mind/soul,what have you..and crafting words to death out of the clear blue sky surely is bunk..go from the heart, that cant be wrong..thats how i feel about it..

FinsburyParkCarrots

Um, but we also know there's also a lot of bad poetry - I mean stuff that doesn't really want to communicate shared experience of pity, pain, joy, suffering, rapture or revelation - which is written from the heart, too. So I'm not sure where the poetic spirit, if we can call it that, does come from, a lot of the time! I think poetry happens almost by magic. It has its own power, and it can enter into a piece of work at any time in the creative process, or never at all. Once it's there, the poem is made, and too much fussing will made it flee the scene.


Blimey, this is good beer, here!


Anyway! I'll flee the scene here, and say once again, thanks, TenJam!

marker_in_the_sand

good, very good!

share more in the future!:D