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Poetry.
Nov 21, 2006 21:17:36 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 21, 2006 21:17:36 GMT -5
Here´s a few new for you.
Bitterness = Biturleiki. Death = Dauði. Happiness = Doesn´t exist!! Oh, all right... Happiness = Hamingja. Moon = Tungl. Sun = Sól. Air = Loft. Wind = Vindur. I hate you = Ég hata þig. I love you = Ég elska þig.
I´ll try to make a sentence with those words, for my loneliness and laziness is on top of everything; I´ve got nothing better to do.
Biturleikinn mun aldrei deyja, tunglið er jafn bjart og sólin, þessa einu nótt, loftið, -vindurinn fór úr skorðum jafnt og orðin; "ég elska þig" urðu að "ég hata þig", -hamingjan var rugluð í ríminu af dreng sem gekk undir nafninu Viktor. Hann er þreittur, en svefn er ofmetinn.
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Poetry.
Nov 21, 2006 21:28:29 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 21, 2006 21:28:29 GMT -5
Windows blow in like ten thousand ice floes upon the snowy quarters.
"Remember when I told you I was sober? Well, I lied... I got drunk with the devil this night. I was asleep when you came, yea baby, I was past out when you arrived..."
Under the tall rife buildings, we are waiting for the end. Under the raindrops marching across our shoulders, we are waiting for the end. We´re all waiting for the end. Under the tree of all atrophies we are calling for the end. The sidewalkers are porting onto the streets. They are chanting for the end. "Milady, why are you still here? We are moving towards the rails in the west to outcry the scavenge." For the city is blindfolded walking across the oblique streets. The world is the burning trees. Wandering through the backstop of hills, this mechanical corner flees for the need. we go to-and-fro on reels spreading for a mile or two. "I say, baby, the day is black as night... the day is darkling." This is a lost town.
"Hist!" -The salesman says to the crowd. "We´ve got the best whiskey in town!"
The veteran sprawled right next to the bottle. He makes an indent full of civil, placed a little book on the bar, and asked for a round.
"Goodnight, dear, goodbye... sleep your last. Along with the devil we shake hands, encroach upon the last steps in this wasteland. And we carry on and on and on... We´re all falling down... down-and-out. The end won´t wait forever, you know... over and out. It´s drowning in every lake, yeah, our glassy faces are drowning in every lake in town. For we are the mislaid town."
With a glass half-empty of rum he said; "Take me for a second ride, my friend."
From the other end of the aircrash.
"Marvin! My old pal. I got shot at the tavern the other day, and the gentle breeze still comes for a visit. Yea, by every hour it knocks on the sores. It knocks on the doors... and prays for a pillow, the bloody sheets from the hospitals. He stole a blanket last week, and got away. There´s no bill for this pain. Oh, no. The dime is all yours."
The day was only few minutes old when it got killed. From the shotgun it received a message... "Over and out."
"I drank into blackout last night, what a railroad... what a drive. We retrospected at the mickey finn... all this alcohol, all the black eyes. And I can still breathe the smoke from the disorderly house..."
Was it worth it?
"Hell, yeah!"
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 1:51:33 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 22, 2006 1:51:33 GMT -5
SPIFFY!
A lesson in Icelandic AND some more words allatonce.
But do tell me, how exactly wouldl one pronounce "þ"?
Actually, for that matter, how about "ð"?
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 1:57:38 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 22, 2006 1:57:38 GMT -5
Oh, obscurity...
It was almost a shiver, the tiniest little glint of movement across the perpetual blue mountain ranges. They scatter upon the surface, weaving endless lines; intertwined; constantly dipping up and down from the core to the very topsoil. At this moment they stretch above the continents, casting shadows on the rocks and cliffs and this shudder, this flash of motion repeats itself over and over again in sundry locations, simultaneously; sometimes rapid, slowing down. Such unseen movements of the vast tunnels below, pumping rivers right into the very centre. A major displacement, as if magma itself flares and rises beneath the skin, yet it goes obscured, seemingly insignificant. If only in a moment of absolute immobility gives rise to the realisation of existence, may we be as stones beneath the sea.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 7:45:07 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 7:45:07 GMT -5
SPIFFY! A lesson in Icelandic AND some more words allatonce. But do tell me, how exactly wouldl one pronounce "þ"? Actually, for that matter, how about "ð"? "Ð" is pronounced like "th", and "Þ" is pretty much the same but with a stronger impression on the "th" sound. But I can´t really describe it here, you´d just have to come to Iceland and live here to learn the language.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 12:34:02 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 12:34:02 GMT -5
I didn´t have the time to read "Oh, obscurity..." before, but now I had. Your poetry reminds me of how I was before, -how my words were before.
I´ll try to look for some older poems.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 12:43:29 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 12:43:29 GMT -5
Found one. But I repeat, it´s kinda old, but I´m still pretty happy with it.
The Beauty Of Halcyonic Days.
By the end of tonight they swam across the riverside cognizant to that tomorrow wouldn´t come and gazed through the candle lights to render the last wink of sunlit, but it didn´t twinkle their pursued eyes. Towards a brighter trail they ravel through the soft as their eyelids seal all glooming mist. The air whispers its tuneless songs above the low into the sky, floating through the night to heed the accustomed ones to the fair daylight. Rosy path tumbled on the golden streets which lustres the wind and grants the framer to wrap its verse into beauty, radiant thoughts tide out and gives the recent crestfallen new prospect to blur the barrel of its gun. The bullet wen´t out but it´s still on its way. The silence now has a tone to answer the silent, they whist the mum heart still beating and let us portend their bounded being.
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 17:55:41 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 22, 2006 17:55:41 GMT -5
Someday I hope to go there, it would be fantastic.
Before what?
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 20:21:03 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 20:21:03 GMT -5
I don´t know, just before now, and how I used to write. "The Beauty Of Halcyonic Days" for example. It´s an old one, but for how I see it, it has a similar taste to it as your writing.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 21:12:34 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 22, 2006 21:12:34 GMT -5
Do you have a livejournal?
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 21:20:21 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 21:20:21 GMT -5
Do not misconceive, I´m not saying yours is bad because it reminds me of my old ones, it just has another style over it, which I was in before.
Livejournal? Well... no. But if the poem is about 1-2 years old, then it´s old.
Darn it. I suck. I´m drunk.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 21:25:50 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 22, 2006 21:25:50 GMT -5
Oh no no, I wasn't taking anything wrongly. I just wonder sometimes about people and how they change. Sometimes someone has an experience and they write completely different from then on.
Livejournal's kind of neat, but I'm probably only saying that because I've been writing in one for almost 4 years.
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Poetry.
Nov 22, 2006 21:36:57 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 22, 2006 21:36:57 GMT -5
I´ve never had a livejournal, and probably never will. But I always carry a little note book with me, so I often write on pubs and such. That probably explains it why my poetry is different and I´m more talking about alcohol, down-and-out´s and the end of the world than back in the day. Sigh...
But I write everything that comes up in my mind in this book of mine, and it´s pretty neat. Of course the half of it I write is just a useless crap, but there´s always something that I can use later, and that´s how all of my poems start, unfold and evolve.
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Poetry.
Nov 23, 2006 0:00:52 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 23, 2006 0:00:52 GMT -5
Yeah I know exactly what you mean, I've carried around a notebook for years. I get accused of being Harriet the Spy, but once I assure them that they're not a part of my daily route, they usually leave me alone I guess it all would make a difference where you're writing. I don't think that's ever occurred to me until just know. Some of my more peaceful writings I suppose must be when I'm in Starbucks or something, just enjoying a cup and watching people walk by. I know it's not useless crap you're writing. I don't think anything is useless crap. Just...pieces of the puzzle, I suppose.
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Poetry.
Nov 23, 2006 8:38:26 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 23, 2006 8:38:26 GMT -5
The location and the situation does matter for some part, but I think it´s more important where your mind is, and how you think of the world, and everything.
Well, maybe I´m not saying it´s useless, but it´s not on my better half.
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