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Poetry.
Nov 23, 2006 13:52:34 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 23, 2006 13:52:34 GMT -5
Have you ever thought of your notebook as a history book? I used to think so because sometimes I would go to a random page and read about something from a year ago that I'd completely forgotten about.
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Poetry.
Nov 23, 2006 13:54:09 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 23, 2006 13:54:09 GMT -5
Such as this bit, which is about my favourite book-
It is no stranger; it is familiar as the scar from summer 1998 that jumps and twists on the back of my hand as I play the piano or write on a piece of paper. The yellow spine, the blurred painting on the cover, the bent corner and the little bit on the back that is supposed to tell you about what is inside it. Even the introduction, Waukegan/Green Town/Byzantium is an old friend. So is "the decent idea" who under bad treatment "folds up its paws, turns on its back, fixes its eyes on eternity, and dies." The first five words, not unlike the first five words of the Bible echo forever in my mind: "It was a quiet morning..." I've read it backwards, forwards, sideways. Hanging from tree branches and hiding under umbrellas. I can recite any bit that you want with the push of a button. They may very well be my memories, they play so vividly in my head. Its pages are not sharp as they were at birth, but nearly as yellow as the cover. I've been to all three places that are in fact, one. I've seen the Lonely One, The Happiness Machine, The Green Machine, Mrs. Bentley, Mexico City, John Huff, The Honeysuckle Lodge, Bill Forrester and his predicament with Helen Loomis. They are all close relations and companions coming out from the pages and into the air. The font, the "about the author", the careful chapters, the eloquent lines, the copyright, the title page, the dedication--everything is etched as firmly in my mind and my heart as the ink on the paper, reverberating against the gray walls and never seeming to lose momentum.
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 12:53:24 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 24, 2006 12:53:24 GMT -5
Have you ever thought of your notebook as a history book? I used to think so because sometimes I would go to a random page and read about something from a year ago that I'd completely forgotten about. No, I´ve never really thought about it this way. But it will happen one day, plus when the book is older. I got it five months ago, or something... and I´m already reaching that point to finish it.
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 12:54:06 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 24, 2006 12:54:06 GMT -5
Nice words, by the way.
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Rodney
New Member
Raise Your Skinny Fists.
Posts: 44
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 16:04:49 GMT -5
Post by Rodney on Nov 24, 2006 16:04:49 GMT -5
Awesome stuff in this thread [NOT GOOD] Fireworks The streetlights on the rain-soaked pavement Make silent fireworks And our love explodes in a grand finale A cacophony of colours and heartache Silhouette's lips on mine before the mist Swallows the world, and she is all i see.[/NOT GOOD]
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Rodney
New Member
Raise Your Skinny Fists.
Posts: 44
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 16:06:28 GMT -5
Post by Rodney on Nov 24, 2006 16:06:28 GMT -5
heh, just found something i wrote ages back...a poem about poetry. I don't understand poetry. You can write about any old s hite [not nutse ] but it don't have to rhyme 'least not all of the time. I could just type one big long continuous string of garbage, such as this one, and it would be nought but a sentence of utter drivel. Whereas if I hit the space bar at random then suddenly, miraculously, my lunatic rambling becomes poetry. Question is is this a work of poetry, irony, satire perhaps, or just plain old-fashioned bollocks?
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 17:27:13 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 24, 2006 17:27:13 GMT -5
Hehehe. The one about poetry is pretty good.
Cheers!
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Poetry.
Nov 24, 2006 17:43:38 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 24, 2006 17:43:38 GMT -5
Finally...another person! Our cult shall spread.
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Poetry.
Nov 27, 2006 15:29:54 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 27, 2006 15:29:54 GMT -5
Like thousands of helicopter blades twiddling at ones. -Everyone died... everything.
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Poetry.
Nov 27, 2006 23:39:26 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 27, 2006 23:39:26 GMT -5
Yeah...let me see what I can find here...
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Poetry.
Nov 28, 2006 2:08:39 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 28, 2006 2:08:39 GMT -5
I enjoy heartbeat metaphors far too much:
It's beating strong and clear behind its gentle cage, echoing softly as if something's right and is being spoken through the reverberations. It whispers and stirs a cooling breeze about it, pitter patter, one step at a time, skipping. There is no time, only endless walking across nations and oceans, throwing stones into the water and watching the rings scatter across the surface. It keeps circling, constant and steady, tripping over cliffs and gliding over valleys. It splinters into a million pieces that fly through the air like shards of glass but they always come back together on the other side.
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Poetry.
Nov 28, 2006 12:36:40 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 28, 2006 12:36:40 GMT -5
Nice one.
Honestly I can´t really find anything which I could put up here. But I´ll try to find something.
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Poetry.
Nov 29, 2006 23:14:51 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 29, 2006 23:14:51 GMT -5
Well. Here´s a new one I made few hours ago.
Almost like a part two for my previous poem St. Coll.
The first lightpost on St. Coll.
She´s absent for now, but don´t you worry, she´ll be back in a daytime, --in the daylight.
In the high key of his tone of voice he arose and cotton on how beautiful the dull dancer was in the distance of his heartbeat, how his heart went pit-a-pat as she ambled across the floor like the mice parade from hole to hole. And her wondrous das in the atrium became speechless and the dumfound in the soft air was oh so full of charm and joy, and when they hark back on the good times it still lures a smile upon every rum-drinking lips in town, it´s like an array of thousand peeresses marching into every canton but still hiding in only one woman, --the dancer on the hills, folding in audacity with pride and mooching prattle with the gnomic tone. The sconce is never empty when she´s around. But, ere long, the tavern was as shivery as midnight in the blackest fall, every song was dim and cold, drab and bold. When she came along there was like a nativity after another, the dawn has risen again through every window and the shutters drawed back to revert into the gloomy bleakness miles away. Oh, yea... they skipped the day. --When she arrived the chrysalis went off our lungs and the quick squall we heard in the remoteness blenched quietly within a minute or two, they were calling for the black-and-white tint for its return trip back home.
Please, be quiet... the beast inside of us all! Please, be still! In every pile there´s a dancefloor for you to step on. Please, stay calm. You won´t be alone when you die. Oh, no... you won´t die alone.
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 30, 2006 0:35:35 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 30, 2006 0:35:35 GMT -5
It's like Dugas and Monet jolted and turned into a bunch of words.
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Poetry.
Nov 30, 2006 7:32:56 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 30, 2006 7:32:56 GMT -5
I don´t even know if that´s good or bad. Dugas and Monet?
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