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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: bugdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: meoww
    Elite Ratio:    6.75 - 262/258/143
    Words: 220
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 848
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1415



    Description:
       "As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."
    Franz Kafka - opening sentence of "Metamorphosis".

    spoken word.
    done live already.
    reposted from a previous id here, discombobulated.
    need this in one place.
    i need this poem here.
    it's very me. very you, that you i'm speaking of.
    all of you... who understand that restlessness, that
    fire, that yearning for something...
    meaningful in all of this.
    yabber yabber.
    etc.
    blah.
    fuck.


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

    dotsbugdots
    -------------------------------------------



    to fly to london,
    read books by kafka
    and voltaire
    and argue over
    the insubstantialness
    of what justifies love and lifeó
    under cherry blossoms in osaka
    and wattle trees in darwin
    we'll take shade under
    hopeful
    and utterly
    free.

    no-one waits for strangers at bus-stops.
    vultures will steal your bags before this comes to pass.
    the apocalypse is stained with belief and rhetoric
    i've seen on the pavementó
    beneath bulldozed fields raised to ceres and isis
    and forgotten earth mothers with different names,
    beyond shells and beads made of amber and citrine:
    hematite for the blood, diamonds for clarity,
    turquoise for endless sea
    rising up.

    i carve words. you sing. i dance.
    you walk circles and call it a journey for squares.
    i cartwheel on sand, sink fingers under
    to be bitten by crabs. you hold a tambourine
    and threaten to ring
    the silliness away.
    of ocean and banshees.
    horns and goatskin drums.
    the futility of luck waltzing through my door.
    the scent of chalky cliffs in dover
    i'll never see.

    where are the floods i've seen?

    wash over me.




    Submitted on 2008-12-01 10:13:40     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    1: >_<
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    ||| Comments |||
      .
    | Posted on 2009-01-06 00:00:00 | by biska | [ Reply to This ]
      It's time to put you on trial, my friend. Why you may be wondering? Don't worry, M. will tell you alllllll about it. For now you've just this to work on: 'Le Canada n'est que quelques arpents de neige.'

    In other news, boy wins local literature contest with his short dissertation on 'Decisions'

         It should be easy to lift oneself out of a miserable state with the force of will. I pull myself from the chair, pace around the table, move my head and neck, bring fire into my eyes, tauten the muscles around them. Work against every feeling, greet A. enthusiastically if he comes by, happily tolerate B. in my room, and, despite pain and difficulty, draw in with long swallows everything that is said at C.'s.
         But even when it turns out this way, with every mistake - and mistakes are inevitable - the whole thing, the easy and the difficult, will break down, and I will have to turn back into the circle.
         Therefore, the best advice remains to accept everything, to act like a heavy mass even if you feel you are being blown away, to let no unnecessary step to be enticed from you, to regard others with the gaze of an animal, to feel no remorse, in short, to force down any remnants of this ghostly life, that is, to multiply the final quiet of the grave and to let nothing but this remain.
         A characteristic motion in such a state is running your little finger over your eyebrow.


    Yep. In Franz's own words. I drew a parallel between the circle he talked about and yours.. for you. Not a lot of people know this, but Franz wrote a lot of what he did in light of his existence in a sphere outside of the real world, created and quite literally made out of those stories. It was all a ploy to escape from his father. Sadly, before Freud's great Oedipus complex theories, people like Kafka tormented themselves endless in trying to please their fathers, having no real basis upon which to reject them or to say 'Ha, it's in my genes to deject you from my life!'

    Well.. In less flattering news, I didn't like your jump from London to Kafka to Voltaire. I can explain my bias - I speak french, was educated in french, so I know both writers as such, even though I know Franz is a German educated Jew - but also because they english have always had a pretentious allure about how they viewed art. It was always as if it was the english and the art, the art the english liked, and the art the english considered uncivilized. In short, I don't like the English when it comes to criticizing, viewing, or learning about art.

    As for that last line... It reminded me of a calm and cool song which I will attempt to share with you now...

    | Posted on 2008-12-04 00:00:00 | by OrigamiLover | [ Reply to This ]
      Wow,

    Well knowing me i'll take something from the poem that wasn't even intended by the Writer so I'll try my best here.

    I read through it first, before i found the parts i wished to break down and mostly this reminds me of the "Pagan" aspect, oh and if you are any way related to Wicca belief or anything please don't be offended by the "Pagan" part, i just placed it all into a generalization.


    "to fly to [London],
    read books by [Kafka]
    and [Voltaire]
    and argue over
    the [insubstantial]
    of what justifies love and lifeó
    under cherry blossoms in [Osaka]
    and wattle trees in [Darwin]
    we'll take shade under
    hopeful
    and utterly
    free."

    You have a few misspellings in here so lets correct that first. "insubstantialness" isn't a word so that is why i placed what i did between the brackets. and since those are names you're using you may want to Capitalize them. I was talking about your poem to a friend of mine and he has showed me some parts of the poem that aren't totally accurate. if you wish to know what i mean his ES page is outlaw, he's really intelligent so i trust his judgment a lot. Though to be fair before it was all explained to me it seemed like a to do list of all the things you wanted to do before you died...if that makes any sense ^///^ well since im not very well informed on this part that you are trying to convey i'll move on to the next stanza.

    "no-one waits for strangers at bus-stops.
    vultures will steal your bags before this comes to pass.
    the apocalypse is stained with belief and rhetoric
    [I've] seen on the pavement
    beneath bulldozed fields raised to [Ceres] and [Isis]
    and forgotten earth mothers with different names,
    beyond shells and beads made of amber and citrine:
    hematite for the blood, diamonds for clarity,
    turquoise for endless sea
    rising up. "

    Well, um in all honesty this does seem all over the place, you don't have many breaks so it's kind of like reading a long paragraph without taking a breath. I love the reference to Isis, i love Egyptian lore, i actually did a piece on her called Mother Isis when i was younger. though i believe this stanza can use some finishing touches and for the thoughts to be gathered together more so than naught.
    I really can't make much of this part, though i wish i could give further critique i believe i should move on before i butcher the true intent you placed here.

    "i carve words. you sing. i dance.
    you walk circles and call it a journey for squares.
    i cartwheel on sand, sink fingers under
    to be bitten by crabs. you hold a tambourine
    and threaten to ring
    the silliness away.
    of ocean and banshees.
    horns and goatskin drums.
    the futility of luck waltzing through my door.
    the scent of chalky cliffs in dover
    i'll never see. "

    The "I, you, I, you" part kind of wanders off topic from the stanza above this, my belief that is. Though i do like the image you convey with the sand and how you involves some of the five senses, i do again believe that you're all over the place on this one. it's like there is no structure that your keeping yourself in. um like no guideline.

    "I'll carve the words, you sing, i dance."
    "As i carve the words, you sing, i dance."
    "I then carve the words you sing, then i dance."

    i don't know if that is exactly as you would have liked it but do you get the meaning im trying to place across? and oddly enough this reminds me again of rituals...so i believe that my perception isn't as great as i thought before i started to read this poem, either i'm missing the main part of the puzzle or i just don't precieve things beyond the "outside the box" portion. but i hope i didn't confuse you in anyway. these are strictly my opinions and in no way am i dissing your work. i believe that if i had greater understanding that i may have a more worthwhile critique to give you but since im going on a small portion of my ability to understand this i just gave you what i could sorry if im not as much of a help as i would have liked to be.
    Thank you for pointing this out to me ^_^

    ~Nikki
    | Posted on 2008-12-04 00:00:00 | by nikita2u | [ Reply to This ]
      Well, you quoted from one of my favourite plays in the description so I was already liking it, but it did give me high expectations.

    I'm going to write a very annoying comment,I'm afraid.

    You talk of Voltaire and Kafka at the start.I have to ask- is "cherry blossoms" a reference to Chekhov? And when you talk about circles later on is that a reference to Brecht? I don't know why, but as soon as I read it, that's what it reminded me of.

    Another question. Are you saying that we waste our lives pondering the 'big' questions instead of doing?

    Apologies for the rubbish comments. I did like it. It's got me thinking

    Fifi
    | Posted on 2008-12-02 00:00:00 | by Fifi | [ Reply to This ]


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