--Elite Writer Alias: JanePlane Name: Jane King ASL: 125/F/everyplane Bio: [ Quick Bio ] Website:[ Website ] Blog:[ Blog ] Days Away: 5 Life Story: [ Ignore User ]
Favorites: 2 Forum Posts: 0 Shoutbox Posts: 0 RP Posts: 0 Signup Date: 550 D 1.51 Years 0.15 Decades 18.33 Months 78.57 Weeks 5.500000e+7 Heart Beats -There you go eggman Quote: There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way.-The Buddha
I also wanted to comment on your work "other side of a butterfly" but found I couldn't. I read it and it basically left me stunned. it was very intuitive. though I'm not sure that's the word I want to use.
Thank you for posting your poetry. I came across your "the other side of the butterfly" and had to read the rest of your offerings. You have greatly improved my moment. Your poetry is an oasis in a sea of would be poetry wreckage.
For some reason, I can't seem to comment on "the other side of the butterfly" so I'm just gonna have to settle for dropping by and telling you that I love it.
haha! well i'm a very casual writer. these are my journal entries, not my serious writes. i think i've only posted one serious piece on here. it's called "blackbird, blackbird". all the rest of the things that i post are literally written in about 5 to 10 minutes. it's a project i've been working on for about a year. poetic diary entries.
the river that i refer to as being stylish is actually referring to the masks that we wear. i often replace words with other words without much thought. like if you ever read one of my pieces that has the words "grave" or "graving" "grave" translates to either open or to close. example "when i'm all crushed, i grave my eyelashes like an island" would translate to "when i'm hurt. i close my eyes to isolate myself from everything"
& no, i was actually making a comparison when i used the word "like". oh well, talk to you soon,
merlo
Thanks for the comments. I’m sorry you cannot understand my poem. To explain the poem I have added explanations to each idea. Here it is:
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Why we should not be poems (Why people, including myself, are not perfect enough to be such beautiful things as poems.)
One speaks without voice, (One person speaks without feeling.)
One's smile makes a susurrus of sightless butterflies,
well fitted for inside of me. (A second person has a smile that makes me feel there are butterflies bumping up inside of me, making a whispery sound – the word sightless explains the butterflies’ behavior; they cannot see and therefore bump up against things.)
One looks at me when I can see them. (When I look at the first person, they look back at me naturally.)
When I cannot,
their face is as twisted
as the gnarled beautiful tree bark. (Behind my back this first person looks disgusted, though beautiful.)
But, as in stanzas of marching black ants, (The inconsistent lines ants make when they walk is compared to what I am about to say. Admittedly, the word “stanzas” is only to tie everything back into poem context.)
their boughs have only been revealed
in a slight and scattered harmony. (The actual traits of this first person – traits being signified by the word “boughs” to link back to the mention of tree bark as their face – are only showed to me infrequently, to compliment and harmonize with what this person wants.)
That scratch across one's cheek. (A specific incident – the second person happened to have a scratch across their cheek when I wrote this. This line was written to be read wistfully)
My warmth craves warmth. (My desire to love makes me want other people – one person in particular – to love me.)
And when they are together,
oh,
What is this beast inside of me? (When these two people I have been talking about are together I feel an anger inside of me.)
And why does this feeling come in such ecstatic,
inconsistent bursts? (This warmth, this love, does not come regularly.)
These slim arms
are now pale against the apparent wind (I am noticing my defects, trying to figure out why there is this inconsistency. “The apparent wind” refers to a wind that may or may not be in reality. This wind may just be apparent to me.)
This great longing, this,
as full of force as the tempests long gone (This longing, warmth, and love is very forceful. As is my anger, my beast.)
And I ask myself,
when will my dove alight upon the tallest tree? (When will my dove – the dove being a representation of that warmth, love, and longing – get to the most wonderful and cherished place. This example makes more sense to people who know me. If it did not have such meaning to me, I would have not used it in fear of it being confused with the first person, who is also represented by a tree.)
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And so now you see that subjects in my poems are not supposed to be translated literally, but my explanations are really what I write them as. 
I really am sorry for the confusion. The tree thing became a bigger theme than I wanted it to be, and the uses of the word “one” was my feeble attempt to stay gender-neutral. (I will let you in on a little secret though: the first person is female, and the second male.) I hope this clears things up! I will edit the poem a little, but keep the main gist.
Now, I still have some questions for you. How do you feel about the fact that the entire poem is a contradiction? That I title it “Why we should not be poems”, and then make us into a poem? What do you think of the aesthetic quality of the poem, the way it sounds? Do you think that I should sacrifice the hope of a little more clarity to keep the flow of the poem?
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