Richard's Animorphs Forum
General Category => General Fan Fiction & Art => Topic started by: Estelore on June 04, 2008, 03:49:26 PM
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I've been a minor poet all my life. You don't have to like them, but some of them are here.
Not all are about Animorphs. In fact, none of them (so far) are about Animorphs. Some DO relate somewhat, though. I'm an Ani-fan, and this is my Art.
"Swan Song" Sestina (a poetic form that I use a lot)
The idea for this began with a fairy tale about a "swan maiden" and the ballet Swan Lake, as well as a long rain we had a few years back.
----
I drift on the silent thoughts of night,
and a soft sea wind whispers
on my brow, telling me deep secrets
of another world beneath this one.
I make no demands on the peaceful
void, and it welcomes me with open arms.
I wake with a shiver, my arms
prickle at the chill of the night.
All around me is deceptively peaceful,
you would never notice how the ocean whispers,
telling me that I am the only one
who can read its dark secrets.
In the water there are no secrets.
There is only the clear, dark water on my arms--
or are they wings? They can be either one,
you know. When all is still at night,
my window opens, and I heed the whispers.
I will fly away while all is peaceful.
The dark water is like glass--peaceful
as the sky above, but with more secrets.
Soft, white feathers slowly whisper
down my back, across my face, up my arms,
and I raise my wings to the night,
triumphantly calling to no one.
I was not always the only one
who soared the skies in the peaceful
hours of the moonless night.
All the rerst have vanished with their secrets,
never again to lift their arms
to the ocean winds as they whisper.
A sad, sweet memory whispers
in my mind, of one
who walked with me, arm in arm,
while the horizon was peaceful,
and who begged to know my secrets.
We parted forever tonight.
Sweet, silent night, leave me to whisper
my secrets to the one
who lies, cold and peaceful, in my arms.
---
A Riddle to Myself
These started as lyrics to a tune I was making up. They became a poem.
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I am the moon in the sky,
a blazing darkness that
eclipses the sun.
I am the stars
on a moonless night,
a blinding light
where there was none.
---
Studies in a Lyric Soul
These are pieces that I wrote when I was analyzing my brain. They speak more about me and what I want than any other works of mine. They are many and far between.
----
I.
Always in such a rush, girl.
Why do you hurry so?
Where must you go, to be driven forth,
like shadow fleeing the sun?
Hardly has the day begun, ere you are
rushing forward, like a swan from the lake
on strong white wings at dawn.
Why do you run?
So they ask me, and I say to them,
There is no hurry,
but I am thinking,
I do not run.
I Fly.
---
II.
In my mind I am in a broad, green meadow
full of wildflowers, paved in soft young grass.
I take off my shoes and lay them aside.
The sun is soft and warm on my shoulders,
and a gentle west wind sighs, lifting my hair from my neck.
I close my eyes and listen, waiting.
Finally, I hear it behind me: the soft, stealthy tread
of a fox.
I greet him with silence and a smile.
He looks me in the eye, too clever by half.
He knows why I am here, and he laughs at me,
high and wild and fearless,
this bright-eyed denizen of shadows and the forest that surrounds us.
Off like a shot, oh how he flies, fleet-footed
and utterly free.
I run with him, but he passes me easily.
I watch him go, and I laugh with him,
high and wild and fearless and free.
---
III.
A microcosm, self-contained, observant of the outer world,
Seeking greater knowledge beyond the common road
head in the clouds, feet on the ground, looking inward for a simple truth.
Every action, with a purpose in mind, yet free of any obvious motives.
Breaking the silence when it serves the goal,
reading, always reading, all to learn more.
One and alone, but never lonely, only occasionally seeking outside company.
Knowledge the first, the highest pursuit, evermore, even before happiness.
Calm without serenity, silence and stillness without peace,
always actively pursuing the goal, appearing motionless,
mentally aware and emotionally reserved, though not indifferent.
Purposefully standing outside the fence, but only to watch and know the world, even if it means existing outside it, learning without living, like living without learning, is meaningless.
Still waters coceal turbulent depths, and silence is not peace.
---
IV.
Watching for the falling sky
while idly by the frost-wind flies,
trees a'fire with beads of ice,
pale and glistening, casting light.
Sings a memory of early autumn's sun,
deep in the afternoon, the air not yet
bitten by evening's chill.
The grass of my field is golden-edged,
waving and driting on the soft wind.
The light floats on my field,
a sunset on a mirror lake, so smoothly the
gilt-and-shadowed blades glide back and forth.
The light so warm, so inviting, it says
"dance on me. I am perfect and endless,
eternity in an instant. Infinity lies
within." Then night consumes the illusion, and all is still.
A moment more do I linger at the window,
watching silent whorls of snow below me,
Hoping that the warmth of dawn is not
too long returning.
---
Feel free to comment, but keep it friendly.
By the way: once I set my work to paper, the words are already EXACTLY how I want them.
I'll accept criticism, but I never edit. It ruins the original emotion of the piece, and it betrays the thoughts that went into it.
---
Shard of Night
(A study of a lyric soul, written under the pseudonym "Belle Newburg")
---
V.
My heart is at peace,
There is a stillness, like ice
in my veins, that silences
the flurry of thoughts
in my mind.
I breathe calmly and evenly,
restful and serene.
Nothing can touch me.
I am ice; I am glass.
I will not melt or shatter.
Clear and hard and cold and bright,
I radiate cold and bend the light.
Unshaken, I walk through the night.
I fly through the storm,
I dance on the sky.
The silent stars call to me,
and the night is mine.
---
Lunchtime Observations
(Our school has a beautifully landscaped courtyard, visible at lunch through windows. Every word here is true.)
I watch the rain fall on the courtyard.
Two yellow poplars stand there, twins perfectly straight and tall.
Behind and between them, a red maple spreads low and broad and strong, so solid in its wide-reaching stance, embracing the clearing in deep shade.
Isolated and offset, a Japanese maple stands, small and glorious, each leaf delicate and bright red, even in summer.
The little maple cannot touch the others, but it outshines them in its miniature grace.
---
Bragi (another form I sometimes use.)
Oh, the places I've flown!
When I play the piano I
sing with my hands. Nothing else can compare
to that feeling of being light as air,
a cloud tossed in the wide, blue sky,
where nothing holds me down.
A symphony calls me. I take the dare.
It's a great thing I cannot deny:
The greatest joy I've know,
to raze the sky alone
on blazing white wings, reaching high.
The world falls behind me. I do not care.
---
Lost Soul Sestina
It was formerly believed by sailors that Albatrosses, Terns, Petrels, and Shearwaters were souls lost at sea.
I love the ambiguity of the ending, and this is one of my favorite works, whether or not it is really any good.
---
As I turn and face the fading light
of the setting sun, I notice
a single pale white tern,
floating high like a ghost
on the knife edge of the wind,
dancing on the approaching storm.
I boldly walk out into the storm,
buffetted by the salty rain. The light
and thunder herald the mighty wind,
ready to toss me about, never noticing
the pale, graceful, feathered ghost,
high over head, the little tern.
My mind drifts like the wandering tern.
My thoughts swirl like an ocean storm.
I wander empty halls, a ghost
in a white dress, showered with light
and making no effort to notice
the deadly force of the wind.
A high scream rips out of the wind,
and there, injured, lies the tern,
his body damaged by this tempest. I notice
his haggard feathers, veteran of a hundred storms
worse than this one. His body is so light,
It is as if I carry a ghost.
I hurry indoors with my little ghost.
The windows flap in protest of the iwnd.
I close them and quickly light
the storm lantern. The tern
has weathered his last storm.
He will not fly again, but he doesn't notice.
I carry him to the table, and I notice
a red drop at his throat. Like the chains of a ghost,
My home rattles in the ocean storm.
Savaged by the vicious wind,
it is battered and broken like the tern.
I hold him and weep in the shaking light.
His body is so frail and light, I hardly notice
that the tern is no longer breathing. "Holy Ghost",
I pray, "send a gentler wind. Save this lost soul from the storm."
---
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Random Lyrics that Popped into my Head and Kinda' Sounded like a Song
Note: I actually have a mental idea for music to go with this, if anyone decides to build a RAF band and likes any of it.
1.
Falling forever through the sky,
stars and clouds are rushing by me.
Calling to you, can you hear me as I cry?
Up from the depths, whispering your name
like a prayer, like a lifeline, like the last tie to my soul.
(chorus)
Save my life, bring me home,
do not leave me here alone.
Without you here beside me I am nothing
but a walking shadow.
Hold my hand, help me breathe,
teach me how to see
beyond the walls that hold me captive.
Come and set me free.
Trapped inside my mind,
holding onto what is left of me.
I am failing, please don't let me fall behind.
Lost in the night, looking for a friend,
blindly reaching for your hand, but will it be there?
You said to trust my heart,
but what happens when it breaks?
Will I still be wandering
through the empty night?
What am I if I should lose my soul?
Who am I without you to guide me?
(chorus)
Save my life, bring me home,
do not leave me here alone.
Without you here beside me I am nothing
but a walking shadow.
Hold my hand, help me breathe,
teach me how to see
beyond the walls that hold me captive.
Come and set me free.
Come and set me free.
----
VI.
You can't fight the rain,
a thousand silver kisses
falling from the grey
November sky.
Step outside, raise your hands,
and reach up high
to seize the fading light.
Take away the silver lining,
daggers falling,
shining ice that splinters
on the window-pane.
Shatter the dawn with sleeting
white needles,
grab at the fleeting moments
beyond the edges of a dream.
Dance in the rain, sing to the sky
and catch a passing raindrop
in the corner of your eye.
Maybe it's a tear, but no-one needs to know.
Hold on tightly to your soul,
and wait in silence for the snow.
---
'Ocean' Triolet
Time for more lyrics!
A triolet, I think, will be appropriate, if I tweak the style.
Rhyme-tampered, but with metrical patterns that fit, blank/free verse, alternating...*ponder-ponder-ponder*
Time to improvise. Definitely.
Along the shore, there stands an oak
that resists the relentless pull of the ocean.
Around its roots, the limbs lie broken.
Along the shore there stands an oak,
and there in its shade, we part, and leave unspoken
words that would betray our deep emotions.
Along the shore, there stands an oak
that resists the relentless pull of the ocean.
---
Here is an Aisling, since I felt like writing one, just for the hey of it. (It's pronounced Ash-ling.)
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Choices
Opening my eyes, to find that I am not alone,
leaves me most startled, one can imagine.
But there he is, silver wings spread wide
to catch the moonlight.
This isn't the first time I've seen him,
but I don't tell anyone.
He says nothing, only he holds out his hand,
waiting for me to accept or refuse.
He needs no words to make me understand,
but I know that I have too much to lose.
And so, he turns away from me without a word,
and I am left speechless and breathless
when he vanishes like a thought.
All that lingers of him is a pale memory,
like a dream that fades with dawn,
and a single silver feather,
promising his return.
I open my window, hoping to see him there,
but there is no use.
A breath of wind tosses my hair,
whispering three words in each of my ears.
Silent as a thought, the first one hears,
"I love you."
The other, "You must choose."
-------
I didn't know that those words were in me, that I would write them.
I don't know if I should weep, laugh, or shiver.
Sometimes I surprise even myself.
This poem suddenly means a lot more to me than it did five minutes ago, when I typed it here.
I don't think that I WANT to know who or what that silver-winged being was.
Better not to dwell on these things.
---
(This Is Not to be considered a continuation of the first, more an alternate and parallel reality. I liked the initial premise, and I felt like extrapolating, but not like altering the original.)
Choices, part 2
Slowly, floating on the edges of a dream,
I drift into another world,
where my true love waits for me.
This is my last chance to make a choice.
I feel him materialize next to my bed,
his great silver wings barely contained by the tiny room.
If only I could use my voice!
I feel him lean over me; he kisses my forehead.
A single word would mean my doom.
I wonder why he never speaks,
but before I can ask, he holds out his hand,
once again bidding me to take it.
After so long, the thing that I seek,
just within reach!
How can I make her understand,
before the new day breaks?
Call it impulse, or foolishness, perhaps,
but I take his hand and rise to my feet.
My heart skips a beat.
We step out, into the rain.
A thousand icy kisses on my face...
Can she see and feel my pain?
This is neither the time nor the place,
and we have far to go, tonight,
before the illusion is shattered.
I cling to him as we fall into the moonlight.
After all this time, only he mattered.
Where we go, I cannot guess,
but I suddenly know
that even the decision not to choose
is still a decision.
I have wanted him forever, and I fear him
as much as I love him,
because he will change everything.
What will become of me,
for following my Dream?
-----
And now, my darlings, I have allowed you to read a true Aisling, personifying a concept as an entity, in this case Dream himself
---
This is a very old piece, but I felt like posting it. It means a lot to me that music is part of my life, so I'll give you all a taste of what I feel during a performance.
It doesn't have a title, because I don't know a word that can sum it up adequately, without leaving out the emotion that goes with it.
----
Untitled 1
Music is nothing less than
a piece of eternity,
of infinite possibilities
and dark glory.
The best of it is the moment before it begins,
a crescendo of nervous silence and iron confidence,
glittering paradoxically.
Either you are ready
or you aren't.
You are never nervous,
unless you are terrified,
but the terror is glorious.
And then it begins, and it is unstoppable.
Hours of work, endless practice,
all come together to create a thing of perfection.
The nerves vanish, the mind is silenced,
and the music IS.
For a moment, a shard of time that lasts forever and
ends in an instant,
the song is ALIVE,
and it lives through the musician.
The musician ceases to be,
and there is only the perfect, painful, wonderful, final
note as the music fades away.
And all that is left for you to do is to stand and face your audience, numb and startled.
You discover now the price of your art:
you have broken away a tiny, insignificant piece of your soul and given it to your audience.
The music has consumed a piece of you,
which cannot be relaimed and may never grow back,
but you are not sad for the loss of it,
because for a moment,
both you and the music have BEEN.
Existed and Lived and Gloried in Living.
And you know, better than anyone else in the room could possibly understand, that
Life Has Been Good.
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Ha my saying it's awesome probably doesn't mean much, but all your stuff is awesome. :)
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Thanks, Anna!
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You should try to get published-the world always needs more poets.
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Thanks!
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Seriously. You're welcome :).
Also, the world needs to start listening to the poets it already has.
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I agree wholeheartedly. I loathe rap, though.
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Everyone misspells it; they forget the k in the front ;D.
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Hah! Nice, Wookie! Do you care if I call you that? Or perhaps VSW? You can call me Este or Es. I know my name is long.
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Just call me John 8).
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Okay, I'll call you John. Hey, why don't you join RAFchat? It's on right now!
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I felt like fleshing-out some of my RPG characters.
Isabel Stone, between morphs:
(http://public2.tektek.org/img/av/0807/d02/1733/5cb820.png)
For some reason, she apparently has no mouth. Ah, well.
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(http://public2.tektek.org/img/av/0807/d03/909/b48767.png)
Jeira Veritas
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Everyone misspells it; they forget the k in the front ;D.
I thought it was spelled with a C.
I hate rap too. I just don't get it.
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I get it, and it nauseates me.
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Ah, now. Back to the poetry. I like occasionally to do pieces on my musical instruments. Here is one from scratch, so we'll see how this works out. Be warned, beloved readers: I personify my instruments. My clarinet is Claire (and she has been Claire for as long as I've played her, long before I met SuperClaire), and my violin is El Violeta (Spanish for The Violet, as opposed to El Morado [the purple], in a male-gender sense. My violin is distinctly a 'he'). My keyboard is Caius (as in Caius Cassius from Julius Caesar, my favourite character in the tale...plus, the keyboard is a Casio). No, I'm not a lunatic...I think.
---
Violin
I am in my easy chair, my happy place,
with a cat on my lap and a book in my hands.
The cat purrs softly, a musical rippling sound
that buzzes warmly against my chest.
I try to resist the insistant tingling in my fingertips,
but it cannot be denied.
I sigh deeply, resigned, but just under my skin,
every nerve ending is popping and crackling
like lightning and white fire.
The book in my hands closes
with a rustle and a snap.
The cat leaps from my lap,
and I cross the room
in an instant.
My ears ring with anticipation,
and I force myself to go slowly
and patiently when I open the case.
There he is, the other half of my soul.
His four strings cry out to me
as the air whispers across them,
a purple sound like light and wind,
elegant and yearning.
I know in an instant that he has been
faithful and true, keeping always in tune.
I pull up the straps that hold him down,
and that radiant, royal voice,
so heartbreakingly sad and human,
chimes its lament for our lonely hours,
when we were apart.
I balance him lightly against my chest
while I draw and tighten the bow.
The rosin lingers there, still fresh and sweet,
a thick, wild scent that speaks of shadows
under spruce and pine.
Gently, so unbearably slowly,
I raise my violin to my shoulder,
until he rests snugly against my face,
nestled perfectly in the curve of my throat,
as though we had been built together in one piece.
I lift the bow.
I strike the first note.
The world falls away, and the song fills my mind and my soul.
Each chord burns like ice in my veins, pulsing against my face and chest,
great roaring waves of sound.
My soul soars, and my violin sings with agony and rapture,
as though an angel were trapped inside,
bound for all eternity
by four delicate strings and a tiny box of spruce and tiger-maple.
I feel the song in my teeth and my fingertips,
a sweetness almost like pain,
a sorrow almost like love.
Then, it is over, and nothing is left
but an afterglow that resembles moonlight.
I loosen the bow and put it away.
I clean the fingerboard and chin rest
with a soft cloth, leaving no rosin dust,
oil, or fingerprints to mar his beauty and grace.
Tenderly, I place him back into the case.
Just as the securing strap tightens down on his neck,
he crys out to me, again.
It sounds like a farewell.
Or a blessing.
Or a prayer.
I can't help making a soft, silent cry of my own,
as the last latch clicks shut with a small,
but final,
"Snap".
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I just felt like doing these.
OWL.
{o,o}
l)___)
-"-"-
Kirby Dance.
<(^_^)> (>^_^)> <( )> (>^_^)> <(^_^)> <(^_^<) <(^_^)> ^(^_^)^ <(^_^)>
Rose.
@---,---`---
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???
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What? I just felt like doing those.
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Uhm, OK
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I agree wholeheartedly. I loathe rap, though.
Everyone misspells it; they forget the k in the front ;D.
I hate rap too. I just don't get it.
And rap hates the both of u!!!!!!!!! Jk u guys r entitled to ur opinions just like how I hate all kinds of country, metal, and Green Day
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*chuckle* Okay, you've commented on my musical tastes. What do you think of the poetry? (Don't worry, I'm brutally honest, so I can take it.)
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Im not a fan of poetry so I wouldn't know whether it's really good or not but It's better than anything I could write
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Gee. Thanks!
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What?!! You like a rap but not poetry??
Does not compute.
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I don't like things that ryhme but dont have music.
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All I can say is... Wow. I know, lame way to review someone's poetry, but "wow" is the only word to describe it. I think Shard of Night is my favorite. I also loved your most recent, Violin. The descriptive words you use are perfect. The mental images are so vivid and clear. And the emotion in each piece is so powerful. You really are a wonderful poet, and you should seriously consider getting some of your work published.
OWL.
{o,o}
l)___)
-"-"-
Kirby Dance.
<(^_^)> (>^_^)> <( )> (>^_^)> <(^_^)> <(^_^<) <(^_^)> ^(^_^)^ <(^_^)>
Rose.
@---,---`---
Very poetic, by the way. :P
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THANKS!!! ;D ;D ;D
I LOVE getting a sincere review! I'm glad that you enjoyed my writing.
Shard of Night was written during a time in my life when I was hurt, sad, and angry, but I knew that I had more important things than my emotions to demand my attention. I had to force myself to focus, by creating a state of icy calm inside my mind and heart. It reminded me almost instantly of the way that Jake described the mind of his tiger morph: cold, emotionless, fierce, in the way of a predator. I had that sense that, despite it all, nothing could touch me, as long as I kept solidly within that state-of-mind. It helped me survive through a lot of suffering, because I was able to feel, as the poem states, 'like ice and glass': delicate, but hard, cold, and sharp-edged...impermeable, despite its temporary nature. I felt the emotional equivalent of that perfect, frozen, clarity. However, through all that, I could feel a fearsome darkness trying to build inside my soul, and I had to figure out how to fight off the darkness before I became a permanent part of it, without letting my emotions swallow me whole. The poem is the result of those conflicting feelings, and the absence of feeling, which is infinitely worse than any pain.
Pain tells you that you are alive.
Violin is almost a love-poem, to be perfectly honest. That violin is a part of me, the way my hands and eyes are part of me. To play it is to lose yourself and to love yourself...to let go of everything that inhibits the passions of your soul (no, I don't mean that in a dirty way. There is more than one kind of passion, and this is more like religious passion than anything else.), allowing yourself to just...BE. I am never more truly myself than when I am writing or creating music. I've played piano longest of all my instruments, but there is something...intimat e (NOT in a dirty way, but in a PERSONAL way) about playing a violin. You literally FEEL each and every note, through your skin, through your fingertips, and through your teeth and the bones of your face and torso. The lower notes resonate your vocal chords, too, so sometimes it is almost like singing. It also feels very natural, the way its shape follows the natural curve of your neck and collarbone. I could honestly play until my fingers bled, and love every instant of it.
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Violin is almost a love-poem, to be perfectly honest. That violin is a part of me, the way my hands and eyes are part of me. To play it is to lose yourself and to love yourself...to let go of everything that inhibits the passions of your soul (no, I don't mean that in a dirty way. There is more than one kind of passion, and this is more like religious passion than anything else.), allowing yourself to just...BE. I am never more truly myself than when I am writing or creating music. I've played piano longest of all my instruments, but there is something...intimat e (NOT in a dirty way, but in a PERSONAL way) about playing a violin. You literally FEEL each and every note, through your skin, through your fingertips, and through your teeth and the bones of your face and torso. The lower notes resonate your vocal chords, too, so sometimes it is almost like singing. It also feels very natural, the way its shape follows the natural curve of your neck and collarbone. I could honestly play until my fingers bled, and love every instant of it.
Wow. You just described the way I feel about music. When I play my piano, I feel like I'm somewhere else, like the world is far behind me and I'm where I belong. It's like each note, each chord, is taking me somewhere far away. Heh, there are very few people I know who understand why there's so much more to playing an instrument than just moving your fingers and playing notes.
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We are a rare sort, but we are linked by common emotions and experiences. To describe each of my instruments in a single word (followed by an explanation, as is natural with me):
Clarinet: Natural. The sort of thing that I can effortlessly do every single day, without feeling bored. If I neglect a day of practice, it feels all wrong and uncomfortable. I NEED my daily clarinet fix. To put it in the terms of a friend, I can "kiss that clarinet and make it sing!" ;) It's like swimming, really.
Violin: Personal. This was the only instrument that I BEGGED to play, as the others were more-or-less forced on me. I NEEDED to play the violin, and now I do. It's the sort of thing that stays close to your heart, even after you put him back in his case. It's like a part of my own being.
Piano: Oxygen. Piano is like breathing for me...it is vital, and natural, and effortless, but you can't OWN it. It is the sort of thing that you take for granted, until the moment that it is taken away from you just long enough for you to realise just how NECESSARY it is. Piano is a passion that defies words, but you can't just pick it up and carry it with you like clarinet and violin, so the piano never TRULY feels like "MY piano!!!", the way that Claire is MY clarinet!! and El Violeta is MY violin!!. It is most beloved for me, but I cannot hold it and posess it the way I can my other instruments, so it seems like an intangible, evanescent thing when I am not playing. The instant I get up from the piano bench, that sense of tender connection to the instrument instantly SNAPS!! back into perspective, and you know that, unlike everything else, you WON'T be the only person to ever touch that beautiful instrument. It's almost a heart-breaking sensation, but it makes you love it even more, for its temporary nature.
Clarinet is something that you DO, a solid verb. Violin is something that you OWN, a part of yourself. Piano is something you ARE, a temporary but very REAL state of being.
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Observations
---
What is it that limits the human mind,
traps your thoughts in an endless box
of cyclical causal paradox?
How can you not see a tesseract,
or feel the expanse of the universe,
stretched out before you,
going on forever?
I cannot understand what can trap the psyche,
tie it up in chains,
so that it cannot imagine Nothing,
but neither can it encompass Everything.
At the same time, your emotions defy imagination:
Your passions, your highs and lows, the depth of your suffering
and the radiance of your joy!
I love you, but how am I to understand you?
To let your heart so thoroughly rule your head? Unthinkable!
The love and the hate that is inside each of you
is enough to make an angel weep,
for both of them burn hot and slow,
like a hearthfire...
or a funeral pyre.
The pain that you bring to others
often borders on the unforgivable,
and yet I cannot bring myself to hate you,
because when you DO show virtue...
Courage and hope, each of which depends
on the presence of the other
for its own existence...
The desire for freedom,
faith and trust in your icons...
Optimism and idealism, in a dark and cynical world...
Oh, it is enough to make me forgive everything,
for the love of you,
you strange little creatures who sing
and dance and write about love and life,
even if it brings me as much pain
as you visit upon each other,
time and again.
I do not know you,
but I feel almost like a mother,
and I would never harm you,
except to save you.
You people make no sense,
but I shall never give up
trying to make sense from what I learn from you.
You see, I have passions, too.
---
Blasted typos.
-
An Attempt at a Villanelle
---
I'm standing in the garden, watching you walk by,
I don't think that you notice, but truly, I don't care.
We shall meet again, beneath this sky.
I do not think you know me, and maybe you are shy,
for I have seen you act as though I were naught but air,
while I stand in my garden, watching you walk by.
I've never tried to stop you, and now I wonder why,
for every day I've seen you walking there,
just as we'll meet again beneath this sky.
In the rain, you cannot see me cry,
and so I know that you won't stop to stare,
as I stand in my garden, watching you walk by.
Today, there is a sadness in your eye,
as though you're lost, and cannot guess at where
we will meet again, beneath this sky.
Tomorrow I shall just give it a try,
for I feel there is much that we can share,
while standing in my garden, watching life go by,
greeting a new day beneath this sky.
---
-
Beautiful :'(
-
Really?!
;D ;D
Thanks! Hey, do you want to get InterWorld going? I'll be online for the next hour or so, I think!
-
OK, who goes first?
-
I just did. Go ahead and post, and you can bump into me, or you can say that I materialized in the middle of your office/home/headquarters/the street in front of you...or you can follow me into the next Reality that I visit, without 'telling' me, but you should indicate that that is your intention (in parentheses at the end of the post), so that I don't claim to have met you.
Whatever you like!
-
In the case that you don't know, I have two strong lineages that I attempt to honour, when I am given the chance. On my father's side, I am EXTREMELY Scottish, even though I don't live in Scotland. On my mother's side, however, I am descended from the Cherokee, a Native American nation. According to their zodiac, I was born under the sign of the Owl, and it is my 'Birth Totem'.
Now, as anyone who has read the Religion threads knows, I am a devout Christian. Among other things, I believe that God sends His angels into our lives to serve as guardians, guides, and messengers. I believe also that sometimes these angels manifest as animals or even as inanimate objects, so that we can occasionally recognise them and (hopefully) understand what they are trying to tell us.
1. Every morning, I walk my dog and feed my outdoor cats, and every time I take the same path through my garden to do this.
2. Last night before bed, I spent some time to meditate on certain things (don't laugh, I take it seriously. It's like praying, but instead of TALKING to God, you LISTEN to him. No, I don't say 'ohmmm', and I don't sit cross-legged, either. It's just a matter of emptying the mind enough to allow something new to come in.), and the concept of totems as angels was one of them. I asked if they could perhaps be the same thing, and, if so, 'was mine truly the Owl?'.
3. The only owl common to my city is the Barn Owl, because it is good at inhabiting human-made buildings.
4. This morning, I found a primary flight feather from a Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus, and I knew beyond ALL doubt that that was the correct species) lying across my path, where I could not help but notice it. There had been a heavy gale that night (BIG HUMUNGOUS WIND), and the ground of my garden was littered with debris and coated with water, silt, and muck, but my path was completely dry and clear of EVERYTHING, except for that one, perfectly formed owl feather.
5. I do not believe in coincidences. Thus, this poem.
---
Totem Owl
Winged Messenger
on silent wings,
fly like a shadow to my side.
Wise One,
Hunter,
Night-Glider,
do not hide from this little one
who walks in the sun
and stumbles blindly in the darkness.
I would dance in the shadow of your wings.
Inquisitor and Judge,
Moon-Singer,
Guardian and Guide,
Golden Eyes,
share with me your sight.
Teach me to listen
in silence.
Lend me patience and stillness.
Drive away the terror of nightfall,
and help me again to see
the glory of this indigo world.
---
-
(http://www.benrey.com/birds/owl2.gif)
(http://www.geocities.com/daspery/feather/ghofeather2.jpg)
You see this? This is me when I'm happy. You won't like me when I'm angry. ;)
(http://www.raptorrecoverynebr.org/Oberon%201.jpg)
-
I may be mistaken but I recall a previous conversation where you told me you were majoring in something OTHER than art/music. WHY?!?!?!?! As a fellow pianist it's exasperrating someone of your talent wouldn't pursue that. Kinda makes me think twice about doing it myself.
-
Toomin! YOU'RE BACK!! :hug2: :hug2: :hug2: :hug2:
I've missed you much.
Music is virtually a religious act for me. To commercialize it would be to deny its meaning in my life.
Also, the music industry is appallingly competitive. I prefer to take my song at leisure, thank you very much. ;)
-
I've just thought of a fair analogy to my feelings about music.
Do you recall that scene in the Bible, where Jesus walks to the temple on the Sabbath and sees people using God's House as a marketplace, buying and selling things? He gets royally P.O.ed, and He destroys the merchants' stands and carts, shouting at everyone for violating the temple and breaking the Sabbath.
Well, music is like that for me. To commercialize it is like selling bananas and fish in the temple on the Sabbath.
See?
Poetry time. Back story: This morning I found a Spicebush Swallowtail Butterfly dying in my garden. I moved him out of the heat of the sun (today is record-breakingly hot), but she still died. This is sorta' a passage prayer and a memorial for the poor little thing. Butterflies...they mean something to me that I cannot fully explain...so...yeah . Here we go.
---
Psyche
Delicate creature, broken and fallen,
do you know what they say about you?
An old story said that the first of your kind was
a woman who loved Love Himself.
They call you the symbol of the soul itself,
the last breath and the final blessing and kiss
of those who are dying.
They say that every time a butterfly dies,
somewhere a heart is breaking, a soul is in pain.
When I heard your struggle, the feeble beating
of your painted wings,
I could not help but believe it.
The sound of a broken butterfly
is the sound of a heart when it breaks.
-
Wow, Estelore. Just, wow. That was amazing.
-
Thanks. :)
-
The Folk
With Courtesy to Robert Frost
Whose woods these are,
I'll never know,
but he's not out here
in the snow.
He will not see me passing through
and he won't miss me when I go.
I sometimes wonder what is true
and why the forest folk, so few,
have drifted from this silent land
and left it to build life anew.
The biting cold on face and hand,
the wind that cuts like glass and sand,
the frozen void of deepest night
have helped me now to understand.
The secret folk have fled like light
for places new and pure and bright,
and I shall follow in their glow
as long as they remain in sight.
---
And again, in Welsh. Such a lovely language. :)
'r Bobl
Ag Chwrteisi at Rhobert Rew
Whose brennau dyma ,
Fi ll erioed adnabod ,
namyn e s mo i maes 'ma i mewn 'r bwrw eira.
E ewyllysia mo canfod 'm yn pasio drwo a enillai t fetha 'm pryd A.
Fi ar adegau rhyfedda beth ydy 'n ddiau a paham 'r choedwig bobl ,
fel hychydig ,
wedi lluchio chan hon 'n dawedog dirio a ar ôl 'i at adeilada buchedd o'r newydd.
'r yn brathu annwyd acha gwynebu a balf ,
'r am-dro a archollion cara gwydr a dywod ,
'r fferedig ddiddim chan deepest nos wedi cyfnerthu 'm awron at ddeall.
'r chwnsel bobl wedi cilio rhag cara chyneua achos chyfleadau 'n grai a 'n anllygredig a 'n befr ,
a Fi shall canlyn i mewn 'n hwy glow 'n gyhyd fel arhosan i mewn drem.
---
-
Iechyd da! :)
-
Unwedd , da hiachâd atat! ;D
-
This post is officially titled "If I Weren't Obsessed With Wakko Warner".
This chick looks a LOT like me, just with shorter hair. The colours are all perfect, hair, skin, and eyes.
(http://dl.glitter-graphics.net/pub/501/501091spkq3w221m.gif)
Rain makes lovely music.
(http://dl7.glitter-graphics.net/pub/879/879047t251h6wqhv.gif)
There is an entire army of these little guys inside my brain.
(http://dl10.glitter-graphics.net/pub/189/189300zenufivry7.gif)
Teehee!
(http://dl.glitter-graphics.net/pub/588/588171d3hyz1w0eg.gif)
This one says it all.
(http://dl8.glitter-graphics.net/pub/464/464178u6y0q1dtsn.gif)
Me = book addict.
(http://dl9.glitter-graphics.net/pub/878/878679jme9n78e1q.png)
(http://dl2.glitter-graphics.net/pub/878/878682lps2e96t4g.gif)
One that celebrates folks like me. ;)
(http://dl8.glitter-graphics.net/pub/31/31018kzq1rr74w3.gif)
Okay, I laughed for a solid 5 minutes after reading this one.
(http://dl10.glitter-graphics.net/pub/406/406880e9xqfo7xjt.gif)
Last but not least, one that could apply to ANYONE in RAF:
(http://dl2.glitter-graphics.net/pub/460/460882cgtpz1r7ye.gif)
-
(http://logo.cafepress.com/7/5834063.1582177.jpg)
MARY-SUE MUST DIEEE!!!
-
Untitled #2
---
Wanderer, drifting,
nameless lost soul on an endless path,
why do you cringe away
from the one that reaches out to you?
Oh, would that you had eyes to see those endless wings.
The warmest embrace means nothing,
if you always turn away.
I cannot give you patience or wisdom;
those are only won through suffering and time.
I cannot give you courage or hope;
you may only find them within yourself,
and the one dies without the other.
I cannot give you anything that you do not already have,
but I can be here,
constant.
I cannot hold back your fears and loneliness,
nor can I fight off your pain and anger,
but I can wait here for you.
I can be here when you need me,
constant and distant as a star.
---
You know who you are.
-
Recurrence
an aisling
---
Shimmering dark water closes softly over my head,
and my bare feet graze the thick, rough sand.
A silent, ripping shriek empties my lungs, and
clouds of bubbles carry my life away,
rushing past my face.
I hear my last breath fleeing,
hissing and clapping noisily in my ears,
pleased to escape.
Finally, I wrench open my eyes,
lifting my gaze.
The last light of desperate hope dances on the distant surface,
sun-gold and brilliant, but fading,
growing pale,
iridescent and silver where it glances off the foam.
I kick wildly at the iron bonds of the undertow,
and water rushes past my parted lips,
scorching and unstoppable,
filling my lungs again.
As the light fades from my sight,
I see a pattern on the waves,
like a death's-head, a dessicated corpse,
grinning madly.
It's shrivelled, bleached-bone hands
reach out to me,
welcoming,
beckoning.
My eyes close, and the after-image lingers,
not a corpse, but a woman's face,
pale and beautiful as the skull was terrible.
Graceful black wings close around me,
welcoming,
beckoning.
My Death greets me, and She is beautiful.
I stop fighting.
I gasp, drawing deep draughts of air,
my eyes wide open, staring into the dark
familiarity of my bedroom.
Tears leap, unbidden, to my eyes.
I don't know anymore why I am crying.
Maybe I weep because I am afraid.
Maybe I weep because I am relieved.
And maybe I weep because the dream is over,
knowing that eternity is only as near and as far as the next room.
Maybe it's a little of each. Yeah.
A little of each.
---
Note: I have a particularly nasty dream of drowning that recurs to me fairly frequently.
-
I've decided to start a new project, based on a particularly interesting piece of work by Beethoven:
The Diabelli Variations.
For those who do not know, a man named Diabelli once wrote a particularly awful little waltz, and Beethoven took that idea and RAN WITH IT! He wrote 33 heartbreakingly beautiful separate pieces of music, all varying on the central musical theme of Diabelli's wretched tune. These Variations are considered by many to be the single most difficult (to play) group of piano solos ever written.
I've decided to do my own...poetical...ve rsion, using the central theme of RAF...
or rather, the MEMBERS of RAF.
One by one, in no particular order (trust me, there is NO reason to these, only rhyme, and probably not much of THAT, either), I intend to write a piece on all of the RAFians with whom I am most familiar.
Please do not be offended if you do not see your name on this list, or if it isn't at the top of the list. Order doesn't matter. If you don't see your name here, and you REALLY want me to make a poem for/about you, you can PM me, and I'll add you to the list if you are familiar enough to me. If your name is on the list, and you sincerely DON'T want me to write about you, PM me NOW and say so. I don't want to waste my time.
If you don't know me, or if I don't know YOU, there simply won't be one about you. Period.
Sorry. *shrug*
I can't write what I don't know.
I'll strike the names off as I go.
Jayne
Phoenix
Duff
Anna
Shanker
Tyler
Toomin
John
Ken
Morfowt
Blue
Richard
Estelore
Claire
Touquie
Dameg
Jen
Esplin
Charlie
Edit: Oh, right. Disclaimer.
Don't expect these poems to necessarily reflect your personality as YOU see it. It's poetry. I'm not going to sacrifice rhyme for meaning, nor meaning for rhyme. If the words fit the idea that I wish to convey, then those are the words I'm going to use, by George!
-
Jayne
---
Every day, I greet the dawn,
twelve more hours to carry on,
one more night survived and gone,
wondering if I'm Knight or Pawn.
Darkling things surrounding me,
I'm the one that stands between
the Human dreams, so pure and clean
and Creatures no one else can see,
the horrid Things that shouldn't be.
Every night, I face the threat.
One more time, a trap to set.
I venture forth and spread the net,
then hurry home without regret.
Swiftly fades the sky to grey.
With clearest Sight and surest aim,
the trick is made, I win the game.
So when the light reveals the day,
only I will walk away.
---
-
AnnaEstelore(Claire)
A poem in three voices.
---
The only difference between
angels and stars (and everyone else),
I think,
is that
angels can fall
stars can fall
(everyone can fall)
sometimes.
Each of us has
a message to convey,
a story to tell,
(a mystery to follow,)
but sometimes
it gets too lonely at the top,
it gets too quiet out here,
(it gets too scary down here,)
so we fly a little bit too low,
so we fly a little bit too far,
(so we fly a little bit too high,)
just a little bit too close to the sun,
and our wings just
burn away.
fade away.
(melt away.)
And we fall.
The only difference between
angels and stars (and everyone else),
I think,
is that sometimes
angels can fall,
stars can fall
(everyone can fall)
but we can't get back up again on our own,
but we can never get back up again,
(but we can try to get back up again, even when we're on our own, and sometimes we even make it,)
(but we can't go back home again)
and still call ourselves angels
and still call ourselves stars
(and still call ourselves a part of everyone else, just like everyone else)
(and still remain what we were.)
The only difference between
angels and stars (and everyone else),
I think,
is that when angels fall, they weep,
when stars fall, they make a wish,
(when we fall, we get up and try again, and they praise us, write songs about us, and call us "Heroes",)
but we're all the same,
because sometimes we fall,
(and none of us is ever the same again.)
-
Ooh I loooooooooooooooooo ooooooved it Estemoolore!!!! :)
-
Aww, jeeez. Thanks, Anna! I hope that Claire sees this in time to comment, before I post another one.
*hint hint, Claire!* ;)
-
Yays I made it in time :D
That was really awesome Este! I can't even describe how cool it was.
When I saw your PM I started smiling, and then I was smiling even more when I read the poem, coz it was just so great!
-
Thanks, Claire!! I'm REALLY glad that you liked it. You have no IDEA how glad I am that you BOTH like it!! ;D ;D
On to the next segment. If I don't have time to finish this, I'll put it all in a different font face to show that it is unfinished. Caution: One minor curse word ahead. Like I said: if the words fit....
---
Shanker
With Courtesy to Douglas Adams and John Milton
---
Sometimes, I wonder if this whole deal,
Life, the Universe, and Everything,
isn't just a big, cosmic Joke.
I mean, there is just way too much irony in everything.
How is a person supposed to get around it?
You can't escape the tiny, infinitessimal, coincidental details,
and you can't overlook the great, big, glaring puns
that just jump out at you,
like binary code in the middle of a thesaurus.
Sure, I guess that you could look at it the other way,
like entropy and everything is wearing us all down
to little, useless bits of matter
with no energy...
...but isn't that really just another kind of sarcasm?
Oh, yeah, you could say that the Universe is a mystery,
a Question (what is 6 X 9?)
waiting for an Answer (42),
but I'll bet you ANYTHING
that the Question for the Answer
is nothing less than a Joke in Base 13!
(Nobody writes jokes in base 13.
I may be a pretty sad person,
but I don't make jokes in base 13.)
Anyway, I don't CARE what anyone else thinks.
You can just go on and live your sad, lonely, colourblind lives.
You can keep looking at me like I've grown another head.
You can stand with the crowd on Judgment Day, and feel righteous about it.
I really don't care.
So go ahead, follow the rules, obey the laws,
obey Gravity,
and line up single file on the stairs
while you walk toward those Pearly Gates
(or the other ones, if you really think that it matters),
I don't care.
I don't care, because
I won't be in that line with you.
Oh, no.
You see, I learned a LONG time ago
that rules were made to be broken,
and laws were made to be defied.
Facts to be disproven.
I also learned how to throw myself at the ground and miss...
...to 'fall with style', so to speak.
So when you're on that Stairway to Heaven
(or the other one, there's no difference, really.
Heaven is a state of mind, you know.),
just keep your eyes open.
Look out for me.
If you're paying attention,
I'll be the one you see flying
high above you,
far ahead of you,
beyond your reach,
but just within your sight,
ignoring all the rules and laughing his disobedient ass off.
I'll be the one who knows the Punch-Line to the Cosmic Joke:
The only real difference between flying and falling
is which way you choose to go,
how committed you are to getting there,
and how certain you are that you'll make it.
---
-
For Richard, the silent-yet-ever-present, tranquil-yet-stern Artifax of RAF...
how could I do anything less than Haiku? I'll stick with one, for now, but I may do a counter-point haiku after every few longer poems. I'm not sure yet.
By the way: Don't you DARE call me lazy for doing a short poem. I had to figure up quite a few in my head before I EVER put one down in actual type. It's just as tough to find the RIGHT Haiku as it is to keep setting accurate metre for a sonnet.
---
Richard
---
You may not know me,
but that does not mean that I
haven't noticed you.
---
-
Those are awesome, too, Estemoolore. You gots the skillz.
-
Thanks, Anna! ;D
I just hope that Shanker and Richard like them, too.
I know Shanker likes Adams (so do I, in a big way), and Miltonian concepts started popping into it (with ME writing it, how could they NOT?!), so it came out a bit like Milton's-Lucifer-meets-a-very-p***ed-off-but-self-satisfied-Arthur Dent-with-a-little-Ford Prefect-thrown-into-the-mix.
As for Richard...I'm fairly satisfied with it, but I won't be sure of how much farther to take that particular segment until I have some feedback, good or otherwise, from the man himself.
-
omg, that was amazing. its like exactly how i think too
-
REALLY?!?!
*explodes with astonished glee*
:explode: :woot2:
AWESOME!!! Thanks, Shanker!!
-
This may not get finished tonight.
----
PhoenixEsplin
An acrostic contrast of two voices.
---
Perhaps you haven't earned my complete trust yet;
However, you might just have my respect.
Only time will tell, but we have all the time in the world.
Eternity is right now; infinity is right here.
Nothing is impossible, just improbable.
I burn with a different kind of fire, and I will NOT be
Xtinguished.
Everyone has a dark, cold, and dangerous side, a bright and sun-lit side, and
Some grey shadows in the space between them, a place that isn't day or night.
People in general aren't entirely or even mostly one way, I've decided.
Lots of you spend your time walking in shadow, unable to choose, unwilling to change.
I refuse to conform to your stereotypes. I make my own choices, and
Nothing can hold me back or keep me down.
---
See if you can spot the hidden words!
-
Blue---
Blue is the sea and the sky,
the centre of a storm cloud,
true-blue, navy blue, eggshell blue,
the star-studded blue field of Heaven.
Blue velvet, a midnight horizon,
blue violets, firmly rooted to the Earth,
eager blue eyes, ready for any challenge,
all blue is alike, and all is utterly different.
If I could,
I'd gather up all the blue in the world,
and I'd pour it all into a great glass bottle of blue.
Then, when someone feels sad, I'd give them a little blue
to tell how they felt.
When someone felt so happy that they could fly,
I'd fold up some paper wings for them and give them blue feathers,
and they would hit the skies without a second thought.
Every once in awhile, I'd give everyone a blue moon,
to remind them that anything can happen.
I'd remind them, too, not to take their rainbows for granted.
Most of all, though, I'd like
for just one whole day,
to make EVERYONE turn blue.
Then, they'd all be the same,
but still stay themselves,
and nobody would ever
fight or hate,
and no one would ever
have to be alone again.
Then, when someone says, "I'm feeling blue",
they'd mean that they feel like Heaven.
---
-
Ah I loved them Estemoolore!! The Mike/Esplin ones seemed to fit real well.
And the Blue one was beautiful, Estemoolore. Awesome writing as usual.
Anna is gonna start a Estelore's Poetry fan club, mmk? Chyeah.
Hehe I spotted thee hidden words. Go Anna.
-
Awww, thanks!
Go Anna, indeed. ;)
Fan club? Well, if you INSTIST.... ::)
-
Eh, only as long as Anna gets to be president of it...
-
Of course. ;)
-
Now I shall refresh the list, so I don't need to go back to page 4 every time I wish to check it.
Jayne
Phoenix
Duff
Anna
Shanker
Tyler
Toomin
John
Ken
Morfowt
Blue
Richard
Estelore
Claire
Touquie
Dameg
Jen
Esplin
Charlie
Mr.Guy
-
Touquie
---
I stand here alone
on the borderland of dreaming,
watching my memories burning.
Page by page,
one piece at a time,
words and images
fall into the fire.
Every memory pales
against that last memory of you.
Everything else is burnt away,
next to a memory that never happened...
could never be allowed to happen.
I wait here alone
at the end of memory,
watching my dreams fade.
One by one,
each new idea,
each picture and each epic thought
dissolves and vanishes.
No dream can stand against
the dream that I will see you again,
happy and whole...
even if it means being happy...
being whole...
without me.
I sit here alone,
surrounded by the world,
watching you
as you wait for your dreams to come true.
I'd build those dreams for you, if I could,
if you'd let me,
but right now,
the most that I can do
is hope that you never have to learn
of my decision...
my sacrifice.
---
-
Wow...I didn't think that you could capture what I was going through but you have.
I'm not sure how to describe how I feel. This catapults me back to when I was most emotional about the situation. Things have changed and I've begun to move on but it still stings.
Today I came across a picture of her and her boyfriend. They look happy together. I'm trying to be supportive of them but...
Thank-you for writing this. It's beautiful. But it hurts.
-
That's really pretty Estemoolore.
-
Thanks, Anna.
Touquie, thank YOU for being such a brave, strong, and all-around good person.
As for the writing...if I knew a way to take "you're welcome" and "thank you" and "I'm sorry; please forgive me", and roll them all into one sentiment...y'know? :-\
If you ever need someone to listen, I'm here, and I can understand your situation as well (or maybe better) as anyone here. :hug2:
Anyway, thanks for the comments, folks. I appreciate it. :)
-
DamegCharlie
---
You are always so happy to see me,
and sometimes I wonder why you should feel that way.
If you could see inside my head,
I think that the darkness would frighten you away.
For me, darkness is warm and welcoming,
a calm and gentle night that ends too soon.
Daylight burns, and the world flies,
hot and fast past my window.
I watch the world rushing by me,
throught the streets that run
like a labyrinth below me.
I will watch for you tonight, by the river at midnight.
When night falls again,
time breaks down into little pieces,
and I can watch each second as it passes,
glistening and perfect in the moonlight.
I will wait here by the river,
where the street lights don't touch me,
and I'll watch that silver road flow through the night,
carrying dreams and silence into the sleeping city.
There, on the river, I will see you walking the dream-road,
and I will join you in dreaming.
I will walk with you tonight, during the blue time.
---
Okay, this poem needs a little bit of explanation, I think.
At first, this poem was ONLY about Dameg...and then suddenly the words 'blue time' popped up at the end, and I re-read it. I realised that I had written it in two voices, which had disguised themselves as the same voice. Upon the second reading, I KNEW that the second voice just HAD to be Charlie.
See, I LOVE Scott Westerfeld's Midnighters trilogy, and I know that Charlie does, too. If you search for "midnighters" in this site, all but three hits in the first set of results are from Charlie's posts.
So, Charlie, I think that you will understand what I mean when I say that I wrote Dameg as a Jessica-figure in this piece, and I wrote you, Charlie, as a Beth/Dess/Jonathan figure, visiting her in the Blue Time every chance that you get.
Dameg and Charlie always seemed like precise opposites to me: Charlie is quite young, but Dameg is one of the older RAFians; Charlie is equal parts cheerful and fierce, but Dameg is always either totally friendly OR totally ferocious in defending her opinions, and never both at the same time. Dameg says that she is a sad and quiet person in the Real World, but she is always pleasant and lively here. Charlie, on the other hand, seems to treat RAFians exactly the way she'd treat people in the Real World.
I couldn't help myself from playing off of those contrasts.
I hope that you like it. :)
-
Okey, I'm taking a break from the RAFpoetry. My brain is blocking me, which means that I need to choose a new subject for a little while. This one is begging to be written, so I'm going to write it.
Inspiration can't be forced, if you want good results.
The following piece is addressed to two separate individuals from my own personal Real Life. Parts of it COULD apply to people in RAF, but I don't feel like being any more specific than that. Sorry. Public words, perhaps, but the sources of the thoughts behind them shall remain private, I think.
Let that be enough.
---
'Rwy'n dy garu
---
C.C.D.
There was a day, not so long ago,
but it seems like forever,
when your eyes would light up like stars
as I entered the room.
Dear one, who has hurt you so badly
that you would lose that perfect, innocent joy?
Your face is blank and closed to me,
and I cannot see your soul anymore,
the way I used to.
I cannot look at your eyes anymore.
Your face is dark and burning to my sight,
and I cannot find inside it
the person who you used to be.
You hurt me, and I have forgiven the hurt,
but I cannot forget it.
I cannot speak to you anymore
without choking on remembered tears.
The person that you've become
is not the one that I first loved,
and it is like looking in a black mirror
and seeing my own death.
You have become dead to me,
because I cannot bear to think
of this creature that is the new you,
and believe that your sweet old self
is still somewhere inside you,
trapped and unable to get out.
You are dead to me,
because I cannot bear to imagine
a world in which you exist
and in which you do not
love me.
Z.K.R.
There was a time, not so long ago,
it might as well have been yesterday,
when you would blush to your ears
every time you saw my face.
Have I hurt you, my own one?
If I have been silent, it was to help you find your voice.
If I have been distant, it was to save you from the greater pain
of losing me, when that time must come.
If I have been cruel, it was to save myself
from giving in to any hope of keeping you.
It always hurts me to injure you,
but it has become necessary.
Oh, would that I were not wise,
nor jaded,
and maybe I could let you love me,
dear heart,
the way I so want to do.
Would that we were children, still,
who knew nothing of death
or life.
---
-
*SOBBB!*
Okay, phew! That was cathartic for me. I think I needed to write that, much worse than I realised at first. It's not easy to dredge up emotions like that, because I usually keep them tightly under wraps.
Touquie, if you get the chance to read this, think of it as 'poetic justice' for what I did with yours. ;)
I'm sorry to bring back your pain. Just know that the Harsh Hands of Poetry/Fate touch me as much as they do you. No one is alone, especially in suffering and internal conflict. It's universal.
I think that I'll try for another one, now that I've got that one out.
---
It goes on.
---
There is nothing in the world
so silent as
a broken violin,
an empty room,
a fallen tree.
There is nothing in the world
so empty as this room,
so fallen as these hopes,
so broken as I feel,
when you're not here with me.
Even so,
I can wait for you,
and I can spend my time
putting things back together.
---
-
Thank-you Estelore.
I really like your latest poem.
-
You are welcome, of course. Thank YOU. I'm glad that you like it. :)
-
Wow, you are really good at poetry, Este.
I really didn't like poetry.. until I read yours. *serious* :)
-
:o
Erm...okay. *not sure how to respond to that, and trying not to get a big head* *(TWSS)*
Thanks! :D
That's just about the highest compliment my work has ever received, so...yeah. Thanks. :)
-
Walt Whitman
The mid-nineteenth century was a revolutionary time for American poetry, an age of new styles and ideas, and of all the poets of this era, perhaps none was as influential as Walt Whitman. Whitman himself was the very embodiment of what it means to be an American, seeking always to improve himself and the world around him by finding common truths and celebrating them with his work. Above all, he observed everything around him, finding beauty in even the simplest and most common things, never taking anything for granted. In the deepest spiritual sense, he was his poetry, and he used everything at his disposal to try to explain the universe around him. Even when he was gripped by debilitating strokes, he saw in his experiences another opportunity to learn about human nature and to teach others. In defining himself and his world through his writings, Walt Whitman forever altered the paths of American poetry.
Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819 in Huntington Township on Long Island, New York. His parents, Walter Whitman and Louisa Van Velsor, were direct descendants of early Dutch and Polish settlers on Long Island (Folsom). Walt was the second of nine children, and he was particularly close to his younger brothers, Andrew Jackson, George Washington, and Thomas Jefferson Whitman, and his older brother, Jesse Whitman. He had three sisters named Mary, Hannah, and Louisa, and his youngest brother, Edward, was both mentally and physically handicapped. He began attending a public school in Brooklyn at the age of six, and his schooling ended at age eleven. During these years, his family moved frequently, but they never left New York City, and they always lived in one of its boroughs (Malone 144).
During one of his stays in Brooklyn, Whitman took various jobs, assisting a doctor in the office during 1830, and then aiding a lawyer in 1831. In 1832, he took a job as a printer’s assistant for the Long Island Patriot (Kerley 1). These jobs all had a major effect on his adult life, because he gained considerable first-aid knowledge in the doctor’s office, which he later put to use as an army nurse. Later in life, he also sought a career in government due to his experiences working with the lawyer. The most work that influenced him most by far, however, was in the print shop. Before he would establish his writing career, he would work on the staffs of nearly a dozen newspapers (Malone 144). For instance, from autumn 1832 to May 1835, he worked as compositor for the Long Island Star, and in 1833, he moved back to Long Island (Malone 150). From 1835 to 1836, he worked as an independent printer in a small New York- based newspaper, but he became unemployed after a great fire destroyed the printing district during August 1836. After that, he found work as a teacher at schools in East Norwich, Hempstead, Babylon, Long Swamp, and Smithtown, finishing his teaching career in the year 1838 (Folsom Oberman).
In 1855, after he had edited the Brooklyn Eagle for six years, Whitman convinced a local printer to publish a collection of twelve of his poems, titled Leaves of Grass. He named it for the common grass plant because, he said, he wished to create a “democratic document”, named for the “democratic herbage… which grows wherever the land is.” Leaves of Grass was rather unique, for although it is published under the name Walt Whitman, and mentions him vaguely in the poem “Song of Myself” as “Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos”, the book never directly names its author (Untermeyer 198). In harmony with its romanticized views of common, everyday objects, the book includes a single photograph of Whitman, dressed not in his usual tailored coat, but instead wearing the flannel shirt and rough, patched trousers of a common worker. The book, the first of eight continually revised editions, is not divided into chapters, and the poems have no titles, but they proceed from poem to poem like a single, continuous train of thought. Whitman believed in what he called the “organic principle”, that poetry should grow freely and naturally, the way a tree grows. In this way, he expanded on his existing writings, adding onto it like the growth rings on a tree trunk (Allen 27). In each successive edition, Whitman edited his writings further, finally perfecting it with his 1891 edition, which was nearly three times longer than the first edition (Luckett 3062). This little book, at first containing only ninety- five pages, caused quite a fuss among the other writers of Whitman’s day, primarily because it completely abandoned all rhyme and meter and instead used free verse, flowing almost like a conversation. With this slim volume, Whitman began his career as America’s favorite poet (Shoop 67).
Although most of Whitman’s peers abhorred his new writing style, one poet in particular found his work revolutionary. Ralph Waldo Emerson, the renowned transcendentalist, wrote a letter to Walt to compliment his work, calling Leaves of Grass “the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed” (Untermeyer 199). Even though he idolized Emerson and took great inspiration from his writings, Walt did not send a return letter to thank Emerson, but he did show the letter to his family and his closest friends in celebration of his poetic triumph. Furthermore, in his second edition of Leaves of Grass, published in 1856, Whitman dedicated his work to Emerson, writing, “Here are thirty- two poems, which I send to you dear Friend and Master….” Later, in 1881 he travelled to Concord, New Hampshire to visit Emerson, one of the last times he left his house before his death (Allen 54).
For much of his young adult life, Whitman had sought a career in government, knowing that such an occupation would improve his position in life and his family’s quality of living. Unfortunately, his status as the second son of a poor Quaker family made this goal nearly impossible to achieve. At that time, he still generally referred to himself as “Walter” instead of “Walt”, and he dressed rather foppishly in a vain attempt to gain social distinction. He could often be seen walking through the streets of Washington, D.C., swinging a cane, and wearing a frock coat with a flower in the top button (Ashworth 733). When the Civil War struck America, however, Whitman realized that he would not be able to gain any suitable government position until the war was over. He then learned that his brother, George Washington Whitman, had suffered a bullet wound in battle, so Whitman travelled to Virginia to aid him (Kerley 23). When Whitman saw the intensity of the suffering endured by the other soldiers, he immediately went to Washington, D.C. and sought temporary employment as an army nurse. During the three years he spent nursing, Walt comforted many injured and dying soldiers, utilizing the first aid training that he had received in the doctor’s office as a child. Later, by pulling some strings with the help of his close friend, William Douglas O’Connor (a clerk at the Treasury Department) he obtained a full- time job as a clerk at the Interior Department’s Bureau of Indian Affairs (Shoop 66). Walt’s time in office was to be very brief, however, because in 1865, James Harlan, the new Interior Secretary, ordered that all nonessential personnel be eliminated from his department, especially all individuals who were found lacking in “moral character” (Shoop 67). Harlan learned that Whitman had written Leaves of Grass, which he called an “indecent book”, and he swiftly removed Whitman from his position at the Bureau (Ashworth 734). Afterwards Harlan worked to keep Whitman from working in any government office, but Whitman again used his many political connections to find a job with Attorney General James Speed, where Whitman worked until his first stroke in 1873 (Genoways 2).
During his years as a nurse, Whitman had used his free time to compile another collection of poems, titled Drum Taps. This short book contained poems that focused on the lives of soldiers during the war. One such poem, “Pioneers! O Pioneers!” has a steady, marching rhythm and a short, sharp refrain of “Pioneers! O Pioneers!” at the end of each stanza, imitating both the routine daily patterns of the soldier’s lives and the brief and sudden battles that occurred periodically. It also shows Whitman’s personal feelings about the war and his sense of camaraderie with the men to whom he tended during his years as a nurse. He writes, “O resistless, restless race…. O, I mourn and yet exalt…. See my children, resolute children…we must never yield or falter….” (Folsom). Drum Taps was published shortly after the war, and it saw much greater success than did the first edition of Leaves of Grass. By this time, more Americans had read his poetry and grown to enjoy his unique style, and the critics had begun to value free verse as a serious poetic genre. It pleased Whitman to know that his work was finally so widely accepted, and he commented, “Proof of the poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it” (Luckett 3064).
Like many loyal Americans of his time, Walt Whitman was an ardent admirer of the sixteenth American president, Abraham Lincoln, so it was only fitting that he wrote two of his most widely recognized poems about the death of this iconic figure. He published both of them in Drum Taps during the year after Lincoln’s assassination. The first poem, the famous and frequently quoted “O Captain! My Captain!”, is completely unlike Whitman’s other published works, primarily because it puts heavy emphasis on rhyme and meter, the exact opposite of Whitman’s usual free verse rhythms. It portrays Lincoln as the fallen captain of a great ship, and it treats him not as a person but as the figurehead of a system of government. Its metaphors are extremely obvious, and it is written almost like a ballade that is sung to music. The writing itself, in comparison to his other writings, is almost infantile in its simplicity, and it is considered by most literary critics to be his worst poem (Shoop 66).
The second poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”, is the lesser known of the two, but it is much more in keeping with Whitman’s established style of free verse and “plain speech”. Its metaphors are much subtler and more original than those in the other poem, and it shows more poignantly the true emotions of its author. In this poem, Lincoln is symbolized as the “great western falling Star”, a source of light and guidance for the poet himself. It tells how the narrator of the poem observes the funeral of the great man, leaving a sprig of lilac on the coffin in remembrance. It portrays Lincoln more as a beloved individual and less as a symbol of the American empire (Untermeyer 202).
One of the things that made Whitman such a successful poet in America was that he was so distinctly American, both in his personal history and as a poet. As a direct descendant of early immigrants to the United States, Walt felt his national identity most acutely, and he saw America both as a vast frontier to explore and as a wild and pristine land that must be protected at any cost. He felt that Americans did not have the right to tame the land for their own ends, but rather they should act as stewards of the land, enjoying it without owning it (Lionheart 49). He expected people of all generations to preserve and enhance the land, but never to detract from its feral beauty. He loved the natural world and everything connected to it, and he reflected this in many of his writings, which celebrate common things that people generally take for granted. For instance, in his famous poem, “Song of Myself”, he states, “the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven”, and that “a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels!” (Untermeyer 201). Whitman glorified in the lives of American workers, exalting everything from bricklayers to mothers cooking and hanging laundry to dry. Furthermore, in “Song of Myself”, Whitman displays for the first time his skill for self- invention, an almost exclusively American poetic device. This poem speaks from constantly shifting points of view, fluidly changing narrators and eventually cycling back to Whitman himself, saying that he is all of these beings and none of them. “Do I contradict myself?” he asks, “Very well then…. I contradict myself; I am large…. I contain multitudes.” He explains that in the end everyone connects in some way to everyone else (Genoways 2). In addition, many of his readers viewed Whitman’s new and unconventional writing style as a revolution against the old European styles that had so long dominated the atmosphere of American poetry. To them, it was the ultimate symbol of America’s decision to break away from Britain’s influence (The Literature Network).
During the prime of his writing career, Whitman was afflicted by a debilitating stroke in January 1873, the first of many strokes that severely restricted his mobility, but did not diminish his writing. He also endured a crippling heat stroke in July 1885 while visiting some of his friends, and he later suffered another paralytic stroke followed by several other ills in June 1888 (Genoways 2). These three major strokes and several smaller incidences caused him to stay confined to his home in Camden, New Jersey, for most of the remainder of his life. Through all of this, however, he found beauty and poignancy in his pain and committed his experiences to his poetry, using them as fuel for thought instead of allowing them to control him. During this period of his life, he was gaining massive recognition, especially in England, where such writers as Anne Gilchrist and William Rossetti criticized other American poets for not recognizing Whitman’s genius. Their critical support caused his fame to increase dramatically in America, and Americans soon acknowledged that he was the founder of a new and promising movement in poetry (Folsom Oberman). After the 1888 stroke, he underwent a revelation of sorts. He realized that he was his writing, in a personal spiritual sense. Like his poetry, he was constantly revising and remaking himself, constantly improving, and adding on to the richness of his life, even when illness kept him trapped in his house. Physically, he was crippled, but as long as he had his art, he could find a way to make himself whole and immortal. In his poem “So Long”, he says, “Camerado! This is no book….Who touches this, touches a man…. I spring from the pages into your arms….” Through his words, he embraced the world that existed outside him without ever leaving the house (Genoways 3).
The final months of Whitman’s life were a battle of wills between Walt and the multiple illnesses that were afflicting him. He was tended by his close friend Horace Traubel, who kept careful records of his conversations for a later biography, and the nurse Frederick Warren “Warry” Fritzinger. His last words were “Shift, Warry,” asking Frederick to help him move to a more comfortable position in the bed. Walt Whitman died of a severe stroke complicated by tuberculosis on March 26, 1892 in his house in Camden. Before he died, he had commissioned a mausoleum of his own design to be built for him in Harleigh Cemetery in Camden, on a plot that he received as a gift from the cemetery owner shortly after it was opened. Later his parents, his brothers Edward and George, and his sisters Louisa and Hannah would be interred in the same tomb, although their names are not engraved anywhere on its external structure (Folsom Oberman). On his mausoleum are inscribed, “Walt Whitman”, and a portrait of him in profile, wearing a hat and holding a cardboard butterfly, representing the soul or psyche. Under the butterfly’s wings is written the preface to Leaves of Grass as well as the poem, “The Last Invocation”, by John Mason Neale (The Literature Network). In many of his writings, Whitman had stated that he did not fear death and that he considered it a natural part of living. In “Song of Myself” he wrote, “Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her that it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.” He had lived a long and fulfilling life, according to his own philosophies. In “Song of the Open Road” he said that the best and freest life allows a man “To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all, without labor or purchase….” (Lionheart 49). He knew that nobody truly owns anything any more than the next person does, because a human life is such a temporary thing that no ownership could stand the test of time. Even though he no longer lives, however, he has obtained cultural immortality, and many public facilities such as schools, bridges, and shopping malls have his name on them. Now that he is beyond knowing or owning anything, he receives more recognition than any living poet does.
Through his life and his writing, Walt Whitman defined his world and himself as the same entity, eternally connected, and in doing so, he revolutionized American poetry. He lived the American way, striving always to improve himself and his position in life. He sought to learn from everything and to share his knowledge with others. He embodied the themes and philosophies of his writings and he celebrated the subtle beauty of the simplest and most common things in daily life. He taught humankind to appreciate the freedom and wildness of the land and never to take anything for granted. America owes to Walt Whitman its eternal gratitude for having the courage and the insight to free poetry from the restrictions of conventional rhyme and meter, and for showing to all of humanity that even the most ordinary actions can have a profound effect on the lives of people everywhere.
Works Cited
Allen, Gay. A Reader’s Guide to Walt Whitman. New York: Syracuse University Press, 1970.
Ashworth, John. Encyclopedia Americana, Volume 28. Danbury: Scholastic Library Publishers,
1829: 733-734.
Folsom, Ed. Obermann Center for Advanced Studies. 1 Feb 2005. The University of Iowa. 15
Jan 2008 < http://www.uiowa.edu/obermann/projects/whitman.html>.
Folsom, Ed. The Walt Whitman Archive. 1 Nov 2007. University of Nebraska- Lincoln. 15 Jan 2008 <http://www.whitmanarchive.org/>.
Genoways, Ted. “Inventing Walt Whitman.” The Virginia Quarterly Review. (81). 1 Apr 2005:
1-3.
Walt Whitman 1 Jan 2008. The Literature Network. 15 Jan 2008
<http://www.online-literature.com/walt-whitman/>.
Kerley, Barbara. Walt Whitman: Words for America. New York: Scholastic Press, 2004.
Lionheart, John Henry. “Walt Whitman: Patron Saint of Nomads.” Earth Island Journal. (15). 1
Jul 2000: 48-50.
Luckett, Perry D. Critical Survey of Poetry, Volume 7. Englewood Cliffs: Salem Press, 1982.
Malone, Dumas. Dictionary of American Biography, Volume 10. New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1936: 3062-3075.
Shoop, Tom. “O Bureaucrat!” Government Executive. (37). 1 Apr 2005: 66-67.
Untermeyer, Louis. The Paths of Poetry. New York: Delacorte Press, 1966.
Walt Whitman 1 Jan 2008. The Literature Network. 15 Jan 2008
<http://www.online-literature.com/walt-whitman/>.
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Hahahahahaaa!!
Sorry about that, everyone. I've been Rick-Rolled SOOOO many times, and I just HAPPENED to have this 10-page treatise on Walt Whitman (which I wrote last May-ish), so I just HAD to post it here. It's not poetry, but it is about one of my very favourite poets (if not THE favourite), so it isn't entirely off-topic.
YOU HAVE JUST BEEN WHIT-ROLLED!!!
Enjoy! >:D
*Yes, I DO get some a great deal of guilty pleasure from this.*
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Well that wasn't pointless ::) I'm just glad that I'm lazy and after about the 5th word I scrolled down.
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I have to say a ditto to what Touquie did XD sorry.
Inspires me though...just wait until I write one about Saul Williams :)
By the way, great poems, Este.
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Ahahahaa! No worries, Touquie and Jen.
The post itself WAS intended as a joke. The writing of the essay WASN'T a joke, and I DID get very high points for it. I'm rather proud of it, naturally. ::) :)
Thanks for the compliments, Jen. I appreciate it. I hope to get around to writing YOUR RAFpoem sooner than later. We'll see how it goes. :)
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Okay, this next one is a semi-cento (pronounced "SEM-ee-KEN-toe"): a poem that has been majorly modified by another author.
In other words, not ALL the credit goes to Esty, capisce?
[A full cento is one in which the author takes lines (ONLY individual LINES) from other authors, combining them into a poem.]
---
Cento: At the Gates
---
I explained to the Keeper
I'd rather stay here,
Outside the Pearly Gate.
I won't be a nuisance;
I won't even move.
I'll be very patient and wait.
I'll be right here, waiting for you, on my own,
No matter how long you may be.
I'd miss you so much, if I went in alone,
That it would not be Heaven for me.
---
Okay, there was that. Now, for a lighter piece. This isn't a poem...it's more of a two-person skit.
I wrote it one day during a Physics class WAAAY back.
Enjoy!
---
Interview With a Pyromaniac
---
SESSION ONE
A. Now, please tell me, sir, what it is that you see here.
*holds up Rorsach card showing a tree in silhouette*
B. Easy. That's a mushroom cloud, as results from a fusion or fission bomb.
A. Good...good...hmmmn ....
*scribbles some notes*
Now, then, what do you see here?
*holds up another card, this time one depicting a circle with a blob in the middle*
B. That's easy, too. It's an ant frying in the beam of light focused by a convex lens, probably a standard magnifying glass.
A. *shudders* Yes! I think that our time is up for today!
*glances nervously at his watch*
Yes, indeed!
*hustles patient briskly out the door*
Don't forget to keep taking those pills that I gave you!
*waves and sighs in relief*
SESSION TWO
B. It's the leprechauns. They tell me things.
A. Ah. I see. What kind of things?
B. Funny things. They think you're fat. They don't like you. *cackles maniacally* No, really, doc. I'm perfectly sane. This therapy isn't necessary. Nope. Nope. Not necessary at all. *cackles again*
A. Tell me more about the leprechauns.
B. What leprechauns? Who are you? Where am I? Who am I? GIVE ME BACK MY BRAIN, YOU LITTLE GREEN DEMONS!! AAAUUUUGHH!! *runs screaming around the room*
Well, then. *sits down*
Do you have any coffee?
A. Yes...yes, we do have coffee. I'll send for some.
B. Some what?
A. Coffee.
B. Who said anything about coffee? I don't need your stinking coffee!! You're crazy! LEAVE ME ALONE, IRISH FREAKS!! *The last bit was said in a Scottish accent. He holds his head in his hands and rocks back and forth in the chair.*
(Heard from behind the door.)
A. Marjorie...MARJORIE, GET THE GUARD IN HERE NOW!! I need assistance. *shrieks*
B. I'll teach you to kill MY leprechauns...Ooooh, you'll be SORRY....Hey, what did I do with those matches?
---
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Wow! These are all great Estelore! Look forward to more!
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Thank you, Skye. :)
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Hahaha.. love the interview with the pyromaniac.
-
;D
Thanks. It's one of those things that I wrote LOOOOONG ago during a physics class, so it's only natural that it should involve fire. ;)
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:o Wow, don't I feel great now. I'm not much of a poetry person, but I like a good poem every so often. So I go to your thread and see what you've been doing.
Thank you so much for that poem. It was PERFECT. Totally awesome, as are the other member-inspired ones, and your most recent.
Skimmed over the Walt Whitman thing, lol. Didn't feel like reading any of it. Thought I saw the word "sextastic" in there, lol. Also, "Interview With a Pyromaniac," was great XD. Anyway, wonderful job, Este. I'm definitely going to save some of this.
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Awww, THANKS, Charlie! That's really good of you. :D
Okey. Bedtime. G'night, all!
(No, I do NOT expect ANYONE to read about Whitman. ::))
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Jayne
Phoenix
Duff
Anna
Shanker
Tyler
Toomin
John
Ken
Morfowt
Blue
Richard
Estelore
Claire
Touquie
Dameg
Jen
Esplin
Charlie
Mr.Guy
Sterling
MusicMan
I've added a couple to the list. We'll see how much farther I get.
-
Sterling
---
Silver is the moonlight on the open road,
the long way out,
the roundabout,
the scenic route,
no thoughts of going home.
I've been running for so many years,
I've stopped keeping score.
What am I running for?
Running to?
Running from?
Running away?
Does it matter,
anymore?
This path is paved
in good intentions,
interventions,
silence, and tears.
Another mile
to file into my head,
another question
for the life I might have lead,
always moving forward,
wondering if it's still worth my while.
Every step has led me here,
and I've never stopped to think
about the things I've left behind.
If I had the option,
would I have changed my mind?
If I look into a mirror,
what horrors will I find?
It's amazing how the future changed
in less than the time
it took me to blink.
Given the chance to choose,
I don't know if I'd take another way,
each word another kind of burn,
a different kind of bruise,
a fresh, new source of pain,
over the one that I have,
under the sun
and the moon
and the rain,
with nothing left to lose
and nothing that I hope to gain.
Behind me, the dawn's first ray
pierces through the night.
Another mile, another day.
---
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:wow:
Amazing..... Simply.... amazing. :o
-
;D
Thanks!!
I'm glad that you liked it!
-
I love your poetry Estelore!
-
Thank you very much, Skye!
Would you like for me to make one for you? I wouldn't be able to write it IMMEDIATELY, but I would certainly give it a shot. :)
-
This may not get finished tonight.
----
PhoenixEsplin
An acrostic contrast of two voices.
---
Perhaps you haven't earned my complete trust yet;
However, you might just have my respect.
Only time will tell, but we have all the time in the world.
Eternity is right now; infinity is right here.
Nothing is impossible, just improbable.
I burn with a different kind of fire, and I will NOT be
Xtinguished.
Everyone has a dark, cold, and dangerous side, a bright and sun-lit side, and
Some grey shadows in the space between them, a place that isn't day or night.
People in general aren't entirely or even mostly one way, I've decided.
Lots of you spend your time walking in shadow, unable to choose, unwilling to change.
I refuse to conform to your stereotypes. I make my own choices, and
Nothing can hold me back or keep me down.
---
See if you can spot the hidden words!
I just read the Jayne poem you posted in her thread and it reminded me of the poem you wrote of Esplin and I a while back so I came to read them again. I'm not sure if you remember me commenting on them previously, but you may remember that I'm not so good with poetry. However, that doesn't mean I can't recognise good poetry when I see it! I love my poem! I can't really explain it, but I kinda feel like it does say something about me. I have actually been known to tell people that nothing is impossible, just really unlikely, so that line certainly fits. And I especially like that last line, again I'm not sure why but I think it's really cool. Thank you Estelore. If I could write decent poetry, I'd write a nice one about you! :)
Oh, and the hidden words are "Change" and "Choice."
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Haha! I remember, and I thank you for both comments. They were very nice. :)
ChangeS, actually. There is an 'S' in the last word.
Change is the only constant, and a phoenix is the very embodiment of constant change, even though it is eternal. It seemed to fit. :)
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The immortal bird represents change? How ironic! I love irony so it must fit! :)
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Hahaha, jah! Think about it: An endless cycle of life balanced by death, then balanced again by rebirth. Endless movement, endless renewal, endless fire, which is in itself a change.
Constant change. Change as a constant. Phoenix. :)
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http://s437.photobucket.com/albums/qq96/Estelore/?start=0&mediafilter=images (http://s437.photobucket.com/albums/qq96/Estelore/?start=0&mediafilter=images)
Okay. There. Pictures of me...sorta'. I can't use pictures of real-world-ME, but here is an avatar edited to look as much like me as I could get her. Check out the 'metamorphosis'. I had too much fun doing that. *indulgent smile* ::)
Sorry, folks, but this is as close as you are going to get to seeing my face...until RAFcon, that is!! ;D
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Wow, you have wings! You're an angel?! :o
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Hahaha, maybe. Maybe I'm a phoenix. ;) Fire + wings + gold and red, right? *chuckle*
If you want to take the literal meaning of 'angel', as 'messenger', then perhaps I am an angel. If you want to interpret it as a being who acts as a guide and guardian to others, or as one who teaches, then it applies. If you see it as one who is devoted to service to God, then it still applies.
*shrug*
:)
Also, it took me FOREVER to find/make wings that looked right!! Second Life is great, but some building gets pretty complex.
*wanders off, muttering about prims and scripts*
The red dress is pretty much identical to the one that I wore to my prom, junior year in high school.
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The following is addressed to someone IRL. Non-RAFian.
For CW
---
Maybe someday soon,
you will share a song again
with me, and a smile.
In that smile there is
so much sunlight and rushing wind,
I think I can feel it on my own face.
If you keep running,
the wind may take you anywhere,
but I hope that it brings you back to me.
The world is vast, and
there is so much time and so
much music in it.
---
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This is a stream-of-consciousness poem. It may suck. I'm just typing whatever I think.
---
one with punctuation added later
---
Random delights. Night-lights. Fight or flight? Why walk when you can run? Why run when you can fly?
Run jump touch the sun. Nothing hides from behind bright light. Can't be reached unless you try.
Don't stop. Gimme' a hand up. Can't get up until you fall. Try to break through the wall but never quite make it. See your smile it's been awhile. Don't turn away sweet, pray stay with me, tarry a day.
Share the sun and the wind, sea-spray and dive past the misty grey. Twilight fades. A new star shines.
Be mine sweet soul don't try to hide. I'll find you past the city lights crossing the bridge. Another place, another face. Where will they live, the bird and the fish? Make a wish and let me be your star.
---
one without the punctuation
---
Breathe the night like ice in my veins feels so cool like rain kissing my eyes can't run from this tried so long to sing my song didn't hear me looks so clear but still waters do run deep can't sleep see your pain want to end it don't know how you know I can't break a vow like this so many vanities don't know where to flee am I running or standing still do what you will I won't stop you.
---
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Toomin
---
Let me drift on this song like a dream don't feel like waking up yet just watching the tune the pattern behind dark curtains black out the moon wrapping cool chords around me true bright sound like bells but better clearer needs no description deceptive reasoning dodge the meaning look for sound and smells like ice can't find a way out shout and pound on the walls closing in room spinning but nowhere to turn falling or flying or running nothing certain anymore but the song is always there always my song.
---
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LOVE it. <3333333333333333333 3333
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:)
I'm glad of it.
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Eheh...Goom, lad, this thread is rather exclusively for my writings. Usually, if you have something that you want read, art-wise, you make your own thread. No offence.
If these are your only poems, I won't get terribly bothered over it, but if you have more that you wish to post, please make yourself a thread for it, and don't clutter mine. :)
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oh, sorry about that.
i'll delete it.
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No worries. Thank-you, though. :)
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yeah, i saw the 'poetry' in the title and thought that it was just you that made the topic.
didn't realize the whole thing was yours.
i'll get around to making a haiku/limerick thread maybe later, but i can wait.
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Hahaha, yeah, that's why I put my NAME on it. ;)
Haiku are AWESOME.
Haikus for Goom
---
Goom is amusing.
I've known him not long at all,
yet he has made me laugh.
I am sure that I
shall enjoy learning more of
this new RAFian.
---
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Broken---
Beautiful,
you try so hard to fix me,
can't you see
without your beautiful eyes tearing up?
Can't you say
without your beautiful lies tearing up
what's left of my reality?
Hiding,
wearing your own face as a mask,
not to conceal,
but to protect us, you say,
because you're too honest to protect yourself.
You feel so alone in the dark,
can't you feel this warmth on your own face?
I can't even look at you.
You burn my eyes.
How can you call yourself cold?
I can't even touch you.
You're so far away, even when you're here.
How can you call yourself distant,
when I can feel your tears on my face?
Clear,
and bright like a full moon is bright,
so much whiteness shining
not from you,
you say,
but through you.
How can I believe that,
when I'm standing here in the focus?
You're on and off like a flame,
and you burn me inside and out.
How can you stand in all that heat
and not be consumed by it?
The truth in your words leaves me bleeding.
It cuts like a healer's knife,
hurting as it mends.
I don't know what truth is, anymore,
but if truth means dark and cold and empty,
then I think I'll keep your beautiful lies,
and I'll let the heat take over me.
If I'm going to be broken,
better to let you be the one to break me.
Better to let you be the one tearing up my world.
---
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Hahaha, yeah, that's why I put my NAME on it. ;)
Haiku are AWESOME.
Haikus for Goom
---
Goom is amusing.
I've known him not long at all,
yet he has made me laugh.
I am sure that I
shall enjoy learning more of
this new RAFian.
---
haha, i completely forgot to save that poem :)
nice new one by the way!
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Thanks, Goom!
Another Haiku for Goom
---
Don't let anyone
tell you how to live. Only
you can be you, Goom.
Winged mushroom-things
are strange, sure, but they're pretty
cool, considering.
---
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Restful Spirit
---
Beloved I see you sitting there silent
and dark in the night waiting for
me to open my eyes
watching over my dreaming
here in your arms
your heart beats sweet music in my ears
slow deep breathing pulling my mind
away to the deep warm black
throw a kiss to the world for me
since I can't seem to find my way
back to life
don't feel like waking up
it's so much nicer
so much warmer here dreaming
with you watching me
while the storm rages outside my door.
---
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that was beautiful.
what's your least type of poetry, estel?
i never liked concrete.
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My least favourite?
Hmmn... well, villanelles can be a *beep* sometimes, but they are still on the upper end of my favourites list....
I just like poetry in general.
...though I'll admit that heroic couplets ANNOY THE HELL OUTTA' ME.
I like Whitman better than Dickinson, if you catch my drift.
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...though I'll admit that heroic couplets ANNOY THE HELL OUTTA' ME.
Haha.
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Oh, hahaha, is that funny to you, Taiyoh?
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Oh, hahaha, is that funny to you, Taiyoh?
I find it amusing, yes.
Why? ???
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No reason but curiosity. :)
There once was a man from Nantucket. I'll tell you the rest when you're 18. ;) >:D ;D 8) ::)
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Doesn't rhyme ;)
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No reason but curiosity. :)
There once was a man from Nantucket. I'll tell you the rest when you're 18. ;) >:D ;D 8) ::)
haha, that one is classic.
the original was:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
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Goom, lad, that's not the version I was thinking. ::)
I know two other versions... and only one is remotely appropriate to tell here:
There once was a man from Nantucket
who got his head stuck in a bucket.
'Twas worse than it seemed,
and he hollered and screamed
until his wife came and un-stuck it.
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Goom, lad, that's not the version I was thinking. ::)
haha, i know.
you really think i'd post it on here? ;D
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Who knows what you'll ever do, Goomy?
-
Lullabye
---
Hold me so I don't fall apart,
There are too many pieces to keep them all together.
I'm so tired,
and it is so warm and so dark.
Will you stay with me,
and watch me while I'm dreaming?
Can you see me bleeding?
My heart is still beating,
but only for you.
All for you.
Will you kiss me in the morning?
Will you miss me when I'm gone?
Close your eyes,
have no fear, my dear one.
I'm here now. I'll keep the darkness away.
I'll keep you from the cold....
Can you feel me breathing your name?
Rest your head on my shoulder,
and let your soul fly away.
I don't know how to fix you anymore,
but I can stay with you.
Winter wraps around us like a song,
and I will wait here while you are sleeping.
Dream of me....
---
Please don't ask. I needed to write, okey? Thanks. *sad smile*
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i enjoyed that, keep it up
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Thanks, Demos.
Hey, as a matter of fact, I think I'll go ahead and write your RAFpoem. :)
---
Demos
---
The only thing left to fear
is fear itself, they say,
so I'm going to become fear.
Be careful,
or I might hurt you
if you get in my way.
The only way to be free, they say,
is to let go of the fears that bind you,
and to take control of your own life.
My life is my own to control,
and if you think you can change that,
you must be very fond of pain.
Turn around and walk away,
because I don't need you anymore.
I don't need any of this.
I'm stepping outside myself,
outside this world
to find something better,
something more than the chains
that you've made for me to wear.
Love changes people, and I don't feel like changing.
Even if I don't find it,
a world or a life to my liking,
I may just stay away.
You can't touch me,
you can't hurt me,
you can't change me,
you can't own me,
and you can't make me fear,
'cause I'm not here,
anymore.
---
I try to write these as words that the people themselves could say in a relatively normal setting, or in a way that they might think. I'm trying to capture their 'voice', so to speak. Lemme' know, please, what you think, Demos, good or bad, okey? Thanks!
:)
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Those are both good, Estelore :)
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your a really good poet Este ;D
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Oh, thank you! :)
I ought to get back to my writing (here and my other writings) HOPEFULLY after this week-or-two span. We have the musical this week, Les Miserables, and it is extremely violin-intensive.
Anyway, no promises, but much hope. Love to you all!
-Este
(no, I'm not vanished, I'm just a bit out-of-the-way for a piece of time)
-
Aw, what the Hell. I have words in my brain. Might as well put them someplace, neh?
Right, so I allowed myself a few moments of boredom yesterday, and I drew this very odd doodle of a heart with some sort of vines wrapping around it. It was very strange and pretty and disturbing, and I've come to the conclusion that I should absolutely never allow myself to be bored again, because it makes people look at me in that confused manner that says, "Seriously, are you wigging out on me, or what?"
That being said, there were words on the picture, written on the vines around the heart, and here are some of them, or at least the ones that come to mind as I type this.
I don't really know where they originated in my thoughts, and I think perhaps that is better left unexplored for today.
---
Entanglement
---
Why do you hide from me,
and what is it that you fear?
Linger another moment here,
please just wait for me.
I won't be long behind you.
Listen in the space between heartbeats;
I'll be there,
whispering your name.
I am with you;
please stop running,
or at least let me run with you.
Why do you look so sad, dear heart?
I'll never really leave you.
You know it, don't you?
I'm here. You do not have to hide from me.
I love you... here for you...
You never have to be alone....
When you say my name like that, it sounds like forever.
I can't stop dreaming of you.
Home.
Like eternity, and everything,
and I could reach out and touch it,
but it could burn me.
Like it could pull away at the last second.
I can feel these sweet words closing around me,
and I have to ask myself:
are they taking over me
or holding me together?
---
There.
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Once again, beautiful! And good luck with Les Mis. I know what hell week is like. We actually did that show two years ago. Nearly a month of rehearsals every day, but so incredibly EPIC at the end.
Sorry for off-topic. I look forward to more poems.
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Hahaha, thank you, Mr. Guy!
And no worries, I've not forgotten you. You are still on my list like all the rest, but I'm the queen of unintentional procrastination and reprioritizing. :P
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Toomin's last post reminded me that, hey, guess what, there are a bunch of words stuck in my head. Thanks, man.
Holding Back
---
I feel like there is ice in my veins,
a fierce, burning cold inside me, white-hot
and screaming to find its way out,
and it's all I can do to contain it,
keep you from burning up with me.
I feel like there are flames, dark, sweet heat,
lingering just behind my eyes,
building in my heart and my hands and my voice,
and they keep reaching for you,
so ready to close around you
and keep you forever.
I feel like there is a vine growing around my feet,
rooting me where I stand,
trapping me here between wishing and acting,
and all I can do is wait,
while the vines climb
and the fire grows
and the ice races again and again
past a heart that loves a little too well.
I have all the time in the world;
I can wait forever for you, if you want that,
all I'm asking is this:
Don't let me burn you.
This world has enough of ashes and dust.
---