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ok due to this lovely thing going around about me in another school....I was inspired to write this....tell me what you think
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Stock photographies: [link]
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*sigh*
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I've been exploring some areas of my spirit here lately, while having these sleep issues of mine, and in the midst of it all, I found this poem, waiting to be written.

I actually dont feel this way, most days, at least, anymore.. I used to, however, and I guess its just leftovers from when I did.

Still. It IS a part of me, and one i find I must deal with, in order to move on with the rest of my reality.

So here you go.

The image.. well.. :sigh: I look at it and think to myself, Yep, there it is. It fits the poem and the emotions I feel about as well as I am able to get it to do. Is it good? Up to you to decide. Personally, its my new favorite from myself.

Anyhow.. It's Jolene dearheart that you see here.

Feedback would be much appreciated all around, and thanks for having a look.

FULLVIEW HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!
:rose:
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this is a journey through the time by these photos of my family [my father side], from 1915/20 to 1975.
some of them, those took before the IIWW, are sort of treasures since they got saved from the war and didn't get lost during the evacuation when my father and his family had to leave the town cause of the wild bombing.
in fact the town here was a military target due to the presence of the weapon factory and it got bombed by americans and english first and then by germans too so people went to the mountains or to the country to save themselves.
there could be many stories about these photos, few of which i know. but i won't tell none of them: just look at the faces and imagine.

--

another text piece, yes.
:bulletred: made with photoshop;
:bulletred: i adjusted the colors so they look almost like the originals [shitty scanner over here] >.<
:bulletred: i put them in chronological order and in there there are parents, relatives, unknown people and my parent's beloved dog.
:bulletred: watercolor brushes [barely visible] are by *mcbadshoes
:bulletred: font used: minion pro
--

and once again with this quote by Delmore Schwartz, yes :D
but while watching at these photos the sentence "time is the fire in which we burn" keep resounding in my head, so true, so true. i could go on ages talking about what does it mean to me, instead i post it here again for you to read:


Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day
by Delmore Schwartz


Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)


(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

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"Perhaps you feel very sensitive about the submission and would rather not have it dissected by user comments." yeah no shit. that's from the 'critique discouraged' option when submitting a deviation.

this is my second poem in my adult life and should be treated as such. i wish it was more refined but it isn't, and i'm not getting into this whole poetry business to make it better. i got encouraged to put it up as my friends who read it, liked it.

i was listening to italian opera or whatever (josh groban, andrea bocelli) at night and we'd been discussing all kinds of romance stuff with my friend earlier and so that inspired me.

i find it amusing that for the preview i'm using a stock photo from sxc.hu ( [link]), just slightly manipulated. i wanted something exactly like that...and was lucky enough to find it :)
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i like my titles, thanks

-

inspired by raymond carver
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Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
Counterclockwise.
Or counterclockwise, line-to-center.
Or whatever. I don't really care.
But if I did, I'd want you to read it
...or maybe I wouldn't.

I'm not a big fan of coloring inside the lines.


Think of this as a miniature "choose your own adventure" story. You can keep going in circles but you can end it after almost any line by connecting to the center. The center, however, is ALWAYS last as it doesn't work well as the beginning of any of the fragments.
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I've been waiting for ages to finish this. It was meant as a painting, but it couldn't add to the words, let alone replace them. Blame ~ELECTROpanda for making me finish it eventually.
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this is really ... old !

lol

reposting for daeira

the poem reads:

i watch you
from the corner of my eye
as you smoke a cigarette
a cloud of smoke
billows from your lips
and i long for those
beautiful lips to kiss
my neck
my shoulder
my arm
you grasp the cigarette
between two perfect fingers
and i long for those
fingers to run down
my back
then i realise
i wish i were the cigarette
the addiction
you hold
so dear



ŠApril2003
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