Journal: ....
-------------------------------------------Mood: (Part of) A writer's Manifesto
So then, this is the beginning to an interpellation to those of you who, among the various constituencies of this world, are entitled writers. How else should one begin such a beginning but to write about it as if it were not the current hap? Although, it may be more alarming, and of greater importance, to know, instead of distracting ourselves with such whimsical thoughts, that the world is slowly succumbing to a state of stagnant existence. The great idealists feared this would happen if a utopia were to subsist in our near future, however, and without a doubt, we have managed to be besotted by this plight without the delights offered by a utopia. In short, something we have considered a mere fear up until now, has actually crept too close for comfort.
It is now incumbent upon the implications that are stowed in the title of writer, poet, lyricist - simply put, anybody who creates with words by means of nib - to acknowledge this proposition of sorts. Share with the world thoughts and ideas, profound and superficial alike, by means of anonymous dissertations delivered by hand to the households in the vicinity of ones own domicile. This will be in hopes of promulgating an inauguration of a thought paradigm, which in turn, would allow us to venture on paths unlike the one that has stolen its place underfoot, and is now molesting our youthful minds of their birthright: active thinking.
Yes, the world is in need of something new, something that might come from you.
F.R. Scott - Trees in Ice
these gaunt prongs and points of trees
pierce the zero air with flame
every finger of black ice
stealing the sun's drawn fire
to make a burning of a barren bush
underneath
from
still
flakes branch
of and
light arm
fleck- fall
ing fall
the
dark
white
snow
this cruelty is a formal loveliness
on a tree's torn limbs
this glittering pain
The Outlaw AnalysisRobert Service
A wild and woeful race he ran
Of lust and sin by land and sea;
Until, abhorred of God and man,
They swung him from the gallows-tree.
And then he climbed the Starry Stair,
And dumb and naked and alone,
With head unbowed and brazen glare,
He stood before the Judgment Throne.
The Keeper of the Records spoke:
"This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.
The weak have wept beneath his yoke,
The strong have fled before his flame.
The blood of babes is on his sword;
His life is evil to the brim:
Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!
Lo! there is none will speak for him."
The golden trumpets blew a blast
That echoed in the crypts of Hell,
For there was Judgment to be passed,
And lips were hushed and silence fell.
The man was mute; he made no stir,
Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .
When all at once a mongrel cur
Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.
It licked his feet with whining cry.
Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?
It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;
Its master, yea, its God was there.
Then, as a thrill of wonder sped
Through throngs of shining seraphim,
The Judge of All looked down and said:
"Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him.
"And who shall love of these the least,
And who by word or look or deed
Shall pity show to bird or beast,
By Me shall have a friend in need.
Aye, though his sin be black as night,
And though he stand 'mid men alone,
He shall be softened in My sight,
And find a pleader by My Throne.
"So let this man to glory win;
From life to life salvation glean;
By pain and sacrifice and sin,
Until he stand before Me -- clean.
For he who loves the least of these
(And here I say and here repeat)
Shall win himself an angel's pleas
For Mercy at My Judgment Seat."
...Created 2008-11-05 07:35:47 [ View Past Journals ] [ View as Blog ] |
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