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    dots Submission Name: NaPoWriMo 9--17dots

    Author: saartha
    ASL Info:    27/F/US
    Elite Ratio:    4.01 - 230/393/145
    Words: 514
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1387
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4036

       Second set of my NaPoWriMo poems. A number of duds in this one, unfortunately.

    April 9th: I simply don't care about most things.
    April 10th: Ego-centric.
    April 11th: No comment.
    April 12th: 'Day-to-day' living.
    April 13th: On love and reason.
    April 14th: Identity and self-consideration.
    April 15: The truth of omniscience.
    April 16: Defining yourself by progress.
    April 17: A tribute to my favorite poet, Miroslav Holub. Contains references to his poetry, his beliefs about poetry, and his work as a scientist.

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

    dotsNaPoWriMo 9--17dots

    April 9, 2011

    Carefully composed, a shout
    gathers itself, its toes
    testing the air. It is vaguely
    ablaze, immolated for
    appearance's sake.

    How proper to reject whatever
    is said to need rejecting.

    April 10, 2011

    Writing about herself, a girl
    is always on a cliff edge, or the center
    of a night moor. The unblinking
    moon regards her, she is many
    falling stars.

    Waking to herself, a girl
    closes her moleskin. The ceiling
    regards her, she does nothing
    she has nothing
    she is nothing
    worth speaking of.

    April 11, 2011

    They're not enough, the night sky's
    silver tacks. It still curls up,
    writhes about, blindly searches out
    its own borders. It discovers hands,
    digging weakly into the ground,
    one million fingers in every
    sleeping crevice.

    April 12, 2011

    Left foot becomes the night,
    right foot becomes the sun.
    Running in circles,
    they go nowhere.

    Left foot, right foot left
    night right sun night sun left--

    I go nowhere.

    April 13, 2011

    Married, I beat my husband. He smiles
    and loves and I beat him; or,
    and so I beat him.

    I dream I have killed
    everything, given birth to a child
    exactly like myself and
    killed it, decisively.

    It is destroyed because I fear it,
    the terrible, universal
    mindless simplicity.

    April 14, 2011

    You do not exist in a forest
    until you have uttered
    yourself into being. The baby
    crow caws and therefore
    is, the young fern forms
    an identity of chlorophyll.

    Man in his glory appears,
    gnashes his shining teeth, says only
    I do not know, who---he stops,
    looking to his reflection in the water
    and dives in, gone

    with nary a ripple.

    April 15, 2011

    Liminal, a god
    washes up on the rocks
    of everything. Its lightlessness

    It looks about, absently
    shuffles the stars, knowing
    that it knows that it
    knows that it
    knows that

    cannot create relevance.

    April 16, 2011

    Geodes know
    the secret to happiness.

    Keep part of yourself
    empty. Full,

    you cease to be.

    April 17, 2011

    Holub, eye bleeding absently,
    was not surprised
    to see an angel
    rise from the depths
    of his poetry.

    Its face was lightening. He measured
    the voltage, mapped the looping
    currents, observed the terribly
    neutral polarity. He diagrammed the
    six wings, counted each toe.
    The oxygen-to-carbon-dioxide-ratio
    was documented, the clotting factor
    of divinity.

    All around, the atoms
    circled their cages like mice.

    Salvation can not be measured, and so
    Holub's angel, like atoms
    or mice, did not know the shape
    of a soul, was not required
    to save it.

    He dissected the angel and then
    wrote a poem. The poem became
    a knife, which he used
    the only way he knew how.

    Submitted on 2011-04-17 19:54:06     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Some of the details felt excessively saturated, but some of these pieces were really eye-openers; take April 16th's entry: Defining yourself by progress. I find this one in particular smack-dab on point. In fact, I posted it as a quote on one of these social networks I've got open in another tab. Some of these lines are worth the share, but others are worth some editing instead.
    Though, seeing that these are journal entries, and not meant to impress nor inform, I'm inclined to praise rather than to bash.

    I enjoyed this- scratch that, I enjoy your style. I'll be reading more of your work after some sleep.
    | Posted on 2015-02-17 00:00:00 | by MyPeriodical | [ Reply to This ]
      really feel the description preceding the poem unnecessary...these separate pieces speak volumes if you let them...
    "april 10th"

    love the ending...the moon or the ceiling, either regards her as nothing...she regards herself as nothing...i think she is somethng...she just doesn't give herself enough credit...

    april 12...left foot right foot going around in circles...like my life..i am nothing..

    again these the 10th and 12th connect so nicely..

    april 13...won't accept good things...my husband loves me, i beat him...we have a child, conceived in love..i kill it..

    she can't trust herself to be happy....she feels the cliff is where she is hanging and she is too wary to be happy...too protective of herself....lashes out like an alcoholic who feels that if we like him or her there must be something wrong with us...the alcoholic doesn't feel likeable...this speaker does not either...

    and the last part..maybe she is a different speaker her...but masking behind the he...

    like dickinson might have done in "a death in the opposite house" as she says...i write poems and i cut up everyone i know in the poems...i get rid of what needs getting rid of...and then i turn the poem on me.

    | Posted on 2011-04-17 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]

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