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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: If This is Boredom, It Must Be Tuesdaydots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: rws
    ASL Info:    58/m/ohio
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 2779/1297/258
    Words: 329
    Class/Type: Prose/Misc
    Total Views: 648
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1954



    Description:
       ~haven't written anything noteworthy in forever - and then~


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

    dotsIf This is Boredom, It Must Be Tuesdaydots
    -------------------------------------------


    If This is Boredom, It Must Be Tuesday

    Too much time to ourselves; old men with nothing left to do but carve hearts in clouds on invisible canvas with mute pens that must have seemed immense for their exuberance and yellow green skills. To accomplish wasn’t much of an accomplishment, since the finished work asked nothing but the touch of other works drawn from the same deep slice (one would never be sufficient, and the words grew lonely). Those were the angel years before ambition came. Fame was the mere admiration of fellow craftsmen in a world of equals. And our sun had barely climbed midway…

    Forms, skills, souls solidified like flesh pointed in its best direction. Blood, bone, thought, excellence of love and sorrow married to the co-efficient that makes words soar, clinging to mountain sides of pride. This is Eden, the bibliophile’s delight. Now we write our kingdoms and make mountains of our dreams; now we are winged lovers hovering as if hell would never marry night. Everyone was cloven-tongued, yet there never seemed to be a devil in sight…

    It couldn’t last…

    And now the nests are dead as an archaeological dig in the basement of a closed museum. Then publication became as potent a mirage as wealth; a lure to draw half-formed poets from side to side like drunken bees to trade hieroglyphs, creating a coterie of modestly known names to flesh out the roll call of predetermined admirers requisite to every endeavor, a mildly inspired hell. Decayed, they’ve become the sedate caretakers of formal devotion to a supernova in full rear view. “If I have the sour taste of a cynic,” my Master said “it’s because I was once under the influence of idealism and every slender purpose she possessed. I could translate what the stars whispered then.

    Now I can’t hear them.

    The moon is solemn as October air.

    And no one weeps.”




    Submitted on 2008-04-22 14:27:45     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      I can tell you're really something. I like your style, but it's probably more accurate to say I like your personality.

    I'm going to enjoy reading your work. You are an original, that's for sure. I want to pull out my favorite parts, but the whole thing is amazing...however I'll try:

    "old men with nothing left to do but carve hearts in clouds on invisible canvas with mute pens that must have seemed immense for their exuberance and yellow green skills"

    "now we are winged lovers hovering as if hell would never marry night. Everyone was cloven-tongued, yet there never seemed to be a devil in sight…"

    " “If I have the sour taste of a cynic,” my Master said “it’s because I was once under the influence of idealism and every slender purpose she possessed. I could translate what the stars whispered then.

    Now I can’t hear them.

    The moon is solemn as October air.

    And no one weeps.” "

    WOW

    I'll be back. You have a fan.

    Lisa
    | Posted on 2008-05-31 00:00:00 | by Seagirl | [ Reply to This ]
      that Jase...
    (sometimes wit escapes me).

    this was a brutal and honest piece you know...

    Writing is still cathartic, most days. Which I suppose is selfish... but it is what it is.

    After a 10 year hiatus, I got back into reading and writing poetry about 4 years ago. And it all started because I got a silly crush on Viggo Mortensen (I am still such a girl sometimes)... but he was soooooo HOT in LOTR. I happened on a site about him (mainly to drool over pics) and stumbled on his words. God, it just struck me... maybe it was the crush, maybe it was the words, maybe both. But what I had forgotten about poetry is that it gets to the crux of the matter. Like a story condensed into the smallest form, with impact. It also made me aware of the power of words, what they mean, how they make one feel, where they take you; an aphrodisiac for the mind. So I put on kid gloves and went on line with the willingness to have people slay my words to better them... I knew nothing about sonnets and form poetry but happened upon a group of people who cared about the art. As well, we had challenges to get us all out of our comfort zones. Mix up the voice inside. And really, what helped most, was reading others work (though I still hate commenting because I always personalize others work and take it somewhere else….kinda like this). (But maybe too, that is the beauty in it...who's to say).

    What I never bargained for was the heart of it. Oh, how words changed my life, how I saw things, felt things, even dreamt things. And worse, how easily I fell in love with them, my imaginings of them… the reality too, being that I was lonely, unhappy, and somehow words filled that space, that longing.

    Yes… to capture the essence of dreams, desires, wants, needs…
    Is that the idealistic? Probably.
    Truth is, I have no desire to publish. Strange that. Though I was gonna send all my stuff to a friend who publishes, so if anything ever happened to me, then maybe my words could continue on (my ego has an ego), or that I would be like Emily with a twist. I haven’t become cynical yet. Not to say that I won’t. But I am grateful in a way that even though I have had a few heartbreaking experiences, I refuse to give up on words. I can’t, not yet. Somehow, they give me balance in some weird way. Too, they are my selfish, cathartic outlet to get these thoughts and feelings outta my body. Yup… a mental laxative, if you will.

    And…. Most importantly… I suppose it is, that someone has to read them, feel them, to make them mean.

    So… this is what was spurned; just blabberings on a Wednesday morning.
    | Posted on 2008-04-23 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]
      Dramatic.
    (It's Wednesday here).
    | Posted on 2008-04-22 00:00:00 | by alteredlife | [ Reply to This ]


    Think Feedback more than Compliments :: [ Guidelines ]

    1. Be honest.
    2. Try not to give only compliments.
    3. How did it make you feel?
    4. Why did it make you feel that way?
    5. Which parts?
    6. What distracted from the piece?
    7. What was unclear?
    8. What does it remind you of?
    9. How could it be improved?
    10. What would you have done differently?
    11. What was your interpretation of it?
    12. Does it feel original?



    160558

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

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