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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Bring Science to Her Kneesdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Mandolin
    ASL Info:    10/15/89
    Elite Ratio:    5.4 - 131/145/85
    Words: 419
    Class/Type: Prose/Longing
    Total Views: 1237
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2162



    Description:
       This comes from a comment I left on [Blue Monk]'s poem, "Wordsmith Blues." Read their poem when you get the chance.
    Blue Monk said the comment in itself was poetry, but I made some more "prose-y" editions.
    Advanced writing critique desired and thoughts.
    Too short comments are not appreciated, they are not helpful.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsBring Science to Her Kneesdots
    -------------------------------------------


    But what, indeed. A gilded mesh you have woven with your robbery, thefts picked tenderly through literature's fineries. Bring your spoils to the craftsman and mend and bend a dress of mail to wear over your soft and tender poet's heart. Vagrant, you cowards know what a sword doth make the inky pen, the blotting singing lark. Writer, you know what chaos and murder your wretched pen will start, and yet you must speak. You must write your truths, knowing they will be the match to burn pyres of living things.

    Cheery intent in the inking and so very wretched in the scrapping away of, the tearing away at. Yet, still appreciative always of the verbal Sirens. Sirens who sing and lure and truly convince us that we who were mere and mortal men can feel what immortal words have felt. Glory to the lasting language, whilst penning hand sat at last finally still, and rotted, as minds rotted before the words were inked. Leave us wreaked with their wisdom!

    Poet! Poet! Harpy, who stirs us with dreams of flight, and dreams of lusty emotions, of feathery flighty battle and life! Harpies, poets, mere men who will pick our bones after we have fallen to our deaths. Men who killed themselves, killed their dreams. Where is the phoenix to fly from the ashes of the fantastic!

    The fawn will sing over our depthless graves and our spirits will allow their hearts to be convinced that this is all as it should be, for the fawns are there, the spirits there, merry and dancing. Bring science to her knees, in sacred lore of heart and magic and the craftsmanship of the stars that we will die to believe. Bring science to her knees.

    Science killed magic, science tore the harpy in half, saying to one half, "Woman" and to the other half, "Bird." Science left the woman sinking in her heart for flight and the bird crying in its breast for love. Science killed dreamers and dissected dreams. And yet, it was that curiosity to know the mechanism of miracle, that gave in the bitter poets hand a pen, and said You, now Philosopher.




    Submitted on 2007-11-06 21:16:55     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      I think this will be the only suggestion I make: Vagrant, you cowards know what a sword doth make[,] the inky pen, the blotting singing lark. (or maybe it should be a semi colon... my apologies at being grammatically challenged)

    What is most interesting (to me, and perhaps just my interpretation) is the comparison between science and poetry as the two are on completely different planes. Although both depend on experience and experiment, science seems so impersonal. I mean one can be excited about a scientific find but it is all about the facts and not the feelings. Science can seem cold and calculated to some, whereas poetry (on most occasions) is not. I think by nature we are curious beings... we want to know the inner workings, and perhaps in that curiousity we have cast aside the magic of everday things. Like once you know how something works, it is no longer interesting enough to pursue or admire and is taken for granted or taken advantage of. Or perhaps it is that that knowledge is no longer deemed valuable as one moves on to something more exciting in the process of discovery. While science prods us on in the pursuit of knowledge, I think poetry allows us to delve into magic. The magic of words, language, meaning, emotion, etc... The way they conjur up all things meaningful and not. It allows our mind to wonder, wander, believe in things perhaps not tangible or explainable.

    What I love most about this piece is the language you have used. It is lyrical, really. It was a pleasure to read. And the ending... was perfect. Kind of a useless comment, and of course just my interpretation. But this was a most enjoyable read regardless.

    (I take forever to formulte a thought and put this comment on the wrong poem...doink)
    | Posted on 2007-11-19 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]
      Well, theoretically speaking, Poetry is the oldest and the most enduring language that this World has ever had the blessing to take hold of. For what is Poetry? While a lot of people might say that Poetry is the act of writing in verses, I truly believe that Poetry is the act of speaking with or writing with your heart in every word. That is why when the first cave man said "Argh" (or whatever) for the very first time when he [censored]ed his very first mate, that is Poetry. And it was beautiful.

    I admire the construction of this piece. More importantly, I admire how you were able to maintain this kind of word use without being tacky or cheap. I think that it comes from you really exercising your use of the language and really going all out. It seems to me that you really allowed your passion and your heart speak for you.

    That I think, is real Poetry. Any sign of half-heartedness may have ruined this piece.

    As for Arts vs Science, I don't think it should be so that only one would exist in the end because humanity survives in an existance that demands it to have choices with his hard and to choose those choices with his mind. Without art, or the beauty of persuing art, man would not be able see life beyond the fact that he exists and ultimately live it. And without science, man cannot exist despite how much he wants to live.

    In the notion of the two coexisting, I think that it is possible if man is mature enough to accept the possibility that he cannot know everything without being too "old" to not have the energy to keep trying.

    Anyway, like my wife, I am sorry for ranting. Really, I think that this is an amazing piece in a sense that you really captured the true essence of this craft that has humbled us all.



    And for that, I thank you.
    | Posted on 2007-11-07 00:00:00 | by ANGELO | [ Reply to This ]
      bravo! an excellent read (as you probably already know and need not be told). unfortunatly you might as well take this comment as a grain of salt because I can find absolutely nothing of discomfort about this peice.

    Men who killed themselves, killed their dreams. Where is the phoenix to fly from the ashes of the fantastic!

    this part was exceptionally moving to me, reminding me of two things: Van Gogh & everything his life & work stood for up until his tragic demise, and a song by Audioslave, Original Fire about carrying on the the legacy of the Renegades.

    very awsome & inspiring, keep up the great work!

    sarah

    | Posted on 2007-11-07 00:00:00 | by vohomegirl | [ Reply to This ]
      tonight seems like a night for posts about the power of poets.

    i was just discussing the other night how science makes everything so much more complicated and takes the wonder out of things for me personally. i spoke of the progression of knowledge. when i was a kid i thought that the thunder was god laughing. then i thought well... maybe not god laughing [coz no one at school thought that] and we came to a concensus that it was santa rolling his sleigh in the mountains. then i get to high school and it tells me all this guff about heat and cool and blahblahblah and all of a sudden thunder isnt very magical at all now is it?!

    you have worded it much more elegantly here than ever i could have.

    you have some most wonderful imagery in this piece.

    You must write your truths, knowing they will be the match to burn pyres of living things.

    i am quite addicted to pyres at the moment.
    lol! that sounds wrong! i havent burnt anyone just yet. but the idea of them... i dont know... theres an element of intrigue in my world right now regarding them. imagine truth being a match to set things alight. i cannot see how that could be a bad thing...

    but of all this piece it is the last paragraph that stuns me most.
    realising it would not be as powerful without the rest of the piece but wow...
    the disecting and leaving one half longing for that of the other... the woman for flight and the bird for love... the killing of dreamers and the ripping apart of dreams all in attempt to be able to explain them...

    and yet it is the wordsmith who has the last word in this piece "oh you philosopher"

    not much of a critique im sorry but you have a masterpiece on your hands here.
    | Posted on 2007-11-07 00:00:00 | by Someones Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]


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