|...when we feel small.|
|...when we feel small.|
Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,Birth of Poetry by `LiliWrites
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.
Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.
So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:
(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)
death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.
To My Younger SelfDear Little Lili,To My Younger Self by `LiliWrites
Never try to cut your own hair. God or genetics or the fates (whatever we'll eventually prefer) blessed us with many skills, but coordination is not one of them. For this reason avoid any sport that requires contact with others. You'll save a few broken bones.
Read everything. Books will be better friends to you than most people, but that is because they are humanity distilled - all of the beauty and none of the beast. Love them accordingly.
Touch the barbs of velvet-petal roses before you inhale their perfume. Get used to the way blood wells, then rolls across the ridges in your skin. Emotions are not so different. You cannot cross through this life without a few scars, but you can prepare yourself for the pain.
Love the people you meet. This will be so easy for you now, while you are young and see the world so clearly. With time, grime will slowly creep into your vision - a cancer of the heart and soul that medicine has yet to diagnose.
Hold on to the words from the
The First Time I Cried...The First Time I Cried While Reading PoetryThe First Time I Cried... by `LiliWrites
You asked if a soul can ache,
watched the tears slide toward
the hollow place in our bed.
I wondered if little girls in Thailand
sleeping in servitude and blameless sin
believe God loves them.
You reached across the sheets,
pressed the pad of your left thumb into my hip,
and impaled miracles on dull words:
"look at us, all agony and grace."
Then rolled away, content to sleep
breathing synced to my sobs.
I kissed your palms, closed my eyes
knew love to be a rabid dog.
The first time I cried
while reading a poem,
you smiled and asked
"does the world make more sense
when it's blurry?"
No, but the bite
doesn't hurt as much.
BoyMany women will write poetryBoy by `LiliWrites
from you. They will translate
your nose into an apostrophe
your smile to the front side
of a parentheses, the back
to tears only once admitted.
They will filter your father's ashes
into adverbs that define your fingers
quaking along skin and sin
toward fibrous paper.
They will dismiss your flaws
as improperly placed commas
or periods born before their time.
They will inspect, perfect
& infect you with emotions
you never learned to muster.
But none of them will know
you as I did: a boy, bent
beneath the waves of love
and glad for it.
Death to the ConspiratorI harbor a foolish hope that sensation might flee my body, though I know it cannot be so.Death to the Conspirator by `LiliWrites
The guards surround me and make an awful commotion - boots clicking sharply against cobblestone floors, guns and belts rattling with each stride. I feel the vibrations in my teeth. A minister walking just ahead snorts loudly every third or fourth step, as though trying to clear his nostrils of the prison's stench.
I had forgotten the scent of a warm summer morning. We leave the gates and stone walls behind and step into the sun. It washes my vision in creamy white. Someone unfolds a black umbrella. My vision returns. There is green grass - rich, moist, and springy under my step. A pale haze rises above the city in the distance, and the white dome of the capital building reflects the sun brilliantly.
Briefly, I wonder if Jackson's hand hesitated before it signed my fate. I know it did not.
I cannot avoid it now, rising above the heads of the parade in front of me: the gallows, constructed not an en
My Romantic Bones Are Dancinglove is...My Romantic Bones Are Dancing by `LiliWrites
the ability to face torment
from a thousand needles
drilling a million holes each
into the same square of skin -
the gouge is a constellation
accompanying an epic tale
that's every brand
the knowledge we are broken
by familiar hands
and restored by
familiar arms & lips
a metaphor for the inexpressible
god in each of us;
manifested in a flame, licking
hollow spaces in our yawning caverns.
one soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking
reparations for its mundane sins.
the first breath, the last breath;
the purpose of inhalations between.
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back 1. I say nothing I am thinking.Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back by =AzizrianDaoXrak
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
2. A sketch of myself.
He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
brown, ready and waiting like
sage bushes, like the hill you go to that is best
for collecting jun
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell youon watching the night close its eyes on you by ~sense-and-stupidity
you are pretty.
How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?
2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six lines
too short, hemming the holes into
puckers red as those volcanoes of strength
bursting at the base of your hips.
3. Blood is not satisfaction.
Blood is not patience, waiting for the rooms to empty
Never ToldHe thinks it's odd, sometimes, though he's not certain why.Never Told by *Judah-Leonardo
A sense of dislocation, perhaps. Like cutting yourself on an unsharpened blade. He walks the immense aisles of the cathedral, footsteps echoing hollowly into the blue shadows of high vaulted ceilings and arches, stone figures watching him from above as he, in turn, watches dawn play across their carved and weathered faces. The grandeur of this place is oddly soothing in the solitude it affords him. A holy place, just hushed, here suspended in the silence after Mattins when most have shuffled out. It's a favorite moment of his, a favorite service to attend, and today it gives him pausethere is training, and paperwork, and a squire for him to wake and a council meeting and a king, but he lets himself linger nonetheless. Just for a heartbeat, just for a heartbeat.
Hal smoothes his fingers over the well-worn coolness of a granite pillar, and he passes it by for the window beyond it, so familiar. He tilts his head back to
The SculptorBefore he would have harvested a tree,The Sculptor by ~somnomollior
hacked off its limbs,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,
no more a tree.
Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.
Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--Apologies to Lao by `fllnthblnk
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
Poetic Terms and TechniquesPoetic terms and techniquesPoetic Terms and Techniques by *futilitarian
This article aims to give you a brief introduction to some poetic terms with which you can bemuse your friends and nonplus your enemies. Try and sling some of these terms into a casual conversation and watch the ensuing confusion.
If you don't want to confuse people, you could use these terms to discuss poetry like a badass
while smoking unfiltered cigarettes in a French cafe, when critiquing, or to give your own poetry a bit of a vajazzle.
These terms are arranged vaguely into alphabetical order for your convenience. Some of them will be covered in more detail in other articles throughout the week.
Alliteration (see also Sibilance)
Alliteration is the repetition of consonant sounds, often used for a specific effect in poetry.
the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
- - Wilfred Owen, ‘Anthem for Do
Love dA Lit: Issue 146Welcome to the one-hundred forty-sixth issue of Love dA Lit! Every Sunday this article will aim to promote volunteer opportunities, various resources, prompts, challenges, and workshops, as well as highlighting various contests, and spotlighting a specific group or project for two weeks. This is by no means a complete list of all the literature going-ons, merely a tool to help you get involved and stay informed.Love dA Lit: Issue 146 by `IrrevocableFate
=DrippingWords's article, Let's Talk Writing, is the bi-weekly spotlight!
#LITplease's Community Portal
A Smattering of Lit News
Song of First Snowfall (Draft 1)I fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
Isn't Life Strange.I was born a thumbtack, and God was an
Office worker. He found me in his pocket,
Lesser than his gilded lint, and I was keen
To prick his leg in transit.
Even gods can bleed.
I became a splinter, a vagrant sentry catching
Grasshoppers in place of a school bus. Home and
Hands covered in bug spit taught me more than any
Teacher ever would.
There's always one exception.
I met a poet in reflection, and he taught me how
Important hot asphalt is to a pair of naked feet.
The heat waves paint a picture, and I learned
To take off my shoes.
What trickles outward forms the road.
Critique on Blood and Secrets: Chapter 1 by ~FadedDreams5
Comment on The Plant in the Moss by ~NatureGuide
Comment on Book Cover - Making Amends by ~CB-Productions
Comment on unworthy. by =bowie-loon123
Critique on Annie in the Garden by *leyghan
Critique on Revolver in a Bag of Puppets by *PursuingTheCerberus
Critique on To Know the Universe by ~OctoberAzriel
Critique on Fairly Feminist Fairy-Tale by ~MissGnat
Comment on Before The Boat Leaves: Freedom by =angeljunkie
Comment on Stained Skies by !sunwisp
Comment on A New Millenium by ~AspiredWriter
comment on fathers by *Flummoxative
Good day, miss.
It's always hard to explain how much you mean to me. When you give back to dA, when you write that one stunning poem that temporarily stops my breath, when you don't let stuff get you down too much. When you keep forging on. You tell me I have these qualities, but you embody these qualities far better than I do. You shine with them.. And people gravitate to that. It's a gift. Please don't forget that.
you're one of my writers.
|Demonstrably Deviant is an interview series aimed at the unsung heroes of DeviantART!|
Demonstrably Deviant: Issue XIAbout
Demonstrably Deviant: Issue XAbout
Breaking in to Lit!Introduction
Be A Hero, Report a Miscat!
Dear Lit Community, Some Solutions`dreamsinstatic wrote an open letter to the literature community specifically addressing issues he feels are detrimental to the health of the lit world on dA. Many of his concerns have been voiced by others in the community in past years and finding solutions to problems like fragmentation, cliques, and "elitism" (what I would call trolling) is no simple task. If, indeed, solutions need to be found at all. Below are my thoughts on some of the problems discussed in `dreamsinstatic's article. Feel free to share your thoughts and ideas in the comments. Let's keep this conversation flowing.
Writing Useful Critiques
Flash Fiction Month July 2012Preface
Tips for the Messy WriterWhen the Muse Strikes
Poetry Basics: BrevityBrevity: n. the quality of expressing much in few words.