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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
January 30, 2013
Star Swallower by *PursuingTheCerberus Suggester writes: A beautiful, moving, tragic poem that reminds us to not be caught up in our doubts, lest the flame of our creativity flicker out unseen.
Featured by BeccaJS
Suggested by LadyofGaerdon
Literature Text
She's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.
Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throwing coffins into the sea
with each day that passes wordless.
denying us the sweet whistles from inside your skull.
meaningful, impacting stories only you could pen.
Stop climbing broken staircases
towards the pale summer stars of obscurity.
these are still fruitful years of beauty.
remove your armor.
claw beyond your fears.
allow us into your wonderland.
============================
COPYRIGHT 2014, William Barker
All my work has copyrights
with the Library of Congress.
No usage without my permission
regardless of circumstance.
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.
Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throwing coffins into the sea
with each day that passes wordless.
denying us the sweet whistles from inside your skull.
meaningful, impacting stories only you could pen.
Stop climbing broken staircases
towards the pale summer stars of obscurity.
these are still fruitful years of beauty.
remove your armor.
claw beyond your fears.
allow us into your wonderland.
============================
COPYRIGHT 2014, William Barker
All my work has copyrights
with the Library of Congress.
No usage without my permission
regardless of circumstance.
Literature
Do you know the taste of the universe?
One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a lo
Literature
Euphrosyne
dawn.
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
midmorning.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
noon.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
afternoon.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
dusk.
when the sun grows w
Literature
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing old
i.
Coupons and sales magazines
have become more than just junk mail
and the holes in my pants
seem more patchable
and I wonder just how much
my sparse jewelry would fetch
if I said I saw the face of Jesus
in the glimmer of my pearls.
ii.
I am beginning to miss the sea I grew up on
so much that I will read bad poetry
just for the mention of a salty ocean breeze.
I feel landlocked and sometimes I'm afraid
that I will never see the world
until I have retired from it.
iii.
Faith says her life is full of asking.
I wish mine were full of answers,
but I too have many questions
and only Time will answer them for me.
iv.
My mothe
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Comments181
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I think somewhere in heaven, Suzanne Staples is smiling.
This is just... let me get my breath back. There is a great deal of emotion within this poem. This is my interpretation of your words:
You introduce your character to us as a mystery, or an "enigma". In a way, you're already letting the reader open up his or her mind to create their own thoughts of the rest of the poem. People are always anxious to solve mysteries, and you introduce your character as one which the readers want to solve. You provide the readers with clues, in the form of metaphors, from "a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations" to "a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations". With each passing line you provide more insight on the inspiration you, as not only a poet but a person, had for this friend. You present yourself as one of us, the readers. Your words open to us what type of person she was- she never feared her thought or words. She never let a notebook go dry; there was always ink on the paper. Her passing signifies an end to the great works she had written and you, along with the readers, long for a return of the inspiration she so often presented. Your poem is rather morbid throughout, but you end on a high not of hope. You ask of the character to "allow us into your wonderland", as if, to give either inspiration one more time or to tell us how she so often provided such inspiration. No read cannot finish this poem with being overwhelmed with many emotions. The poem itself inspires, myself, to look at my poetry in a different light and not just as words, but as little emotions which can impact my readers. This is my feeling from the poem.
This is fantast, Mr. Barker, and I truly enjoyed reading it.
This is just... let me get my breath back. There is a great deal of emotion within this poem. This is my interpretation of your words:
You introduce your character to us as a mystery, or an "enigma". In a way, you're already letting the reader open up his or her mind to create their own thoughts of the rest of the poem. People are always anxious to solve mysteries, and you introduce your character as one which the readers want to solve. You provide the readers with clues, in the form of metaphors, from "a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations" to "a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations". With each passing line you provide more insight on the inspiration you, as not only a poet but a person, had for this friend. You present yourself as one of us, the readers. Your words open to us what type of person she was- she never feared her thought or words. She never let a notebook go dry; there was always ink on the paper. Her passing signifies an end to the great works she had written and you, along with the readers, long for a return of the inspiration she so often presented. Your poem is rather morbid throughout, but you end on a high not of hope. You ask of the character to "allow us into your wonderland", as if, to give either inspiration one more time or to tell us how she so often provided such inspiration. No read cannot finish this poem with being overwhelmed with many emotions. The poem itself inspires, myself, to look at my poetry in a different light and not just as words, but as little emotions which can impact my readers. This is my feeling from the poem.
This is fantast, Mr. Barker, and I truly enjoyed reading it.