Offenses too many but guiltless I stand proud
"What are the charges?" the Judge asked
"Blunt force Humor"
"Grievous bodily sarcasm"
"Displaying his stream of consciousness in a public place"
"Abusing his love of all lines alliterative; allowing all else to languor listlessly while alienating livid lines of literary lechers."
"And how do you plea?"
"I plea with glee;
For I am a simple Simon who's sick of your sermons
And Plea is for pleasure; that's good enough for me."
"I'll not change my tune even if you throw away the key
I'll read your book the one you threw, through and through and through and then….
I'll use it to complete my bookcase of selfless defense
An art passed on down through the sages to we happy few"
"We've heard enough of your tribble and tripe
Prepare for our black disposition.
Oh lowly fakir and fraud
You will be put down like the low beast you are"
"I pass gas on your sentence and instead choose the chai
Marble MythI find you amidst dust and alabasterMarble Myth9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
where you stand in smooth, marble pride.
Your skin is stiff and plastered
against all my caresses. You hide
the rhythm of the stone in your chest
but my straining ear heard its beat
while my own lilting heart knew unrest.
The divine Art of Venus I will not entreat,
for it was not my hands that carved
your body. Still, like Pygmalion playing
lover to his ivory girl, I am starved
for flesh to yield to my fingers, praying
that my own art, not divine or of stone,
can still make your heart revealed
to me. Let it be my own art alone
that will make such cold marble yield.
This CityWe meet in this city unerased by time.This City9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My eyes do not know your face
anymore, but the memories of you
are still draped across my skin.
Long ago I've breathed the warmth of you
and felt the weight of you in my bones.
I've never brushed off the dust
of this place where you left me.
Foreign cities I have known since then.
My feet have touched frozen sidewalks
and waltzed to street fiddlers' melodic sorrows.
I've drank wine by fountains and ruins
while telling strangers my story.
I laughed away the tragedies
of past heartbreaks. I knew then
that I still ached for you.
I saw a fat man with no neck belt arias
from a balcony where once Juliet
might have sighed, and wished
she could erase her own name.
If I could have taken your name
from my mind, I would not
have been wandering all this time
through city after city.
Facing you, there are no words to say
and no arias to sing, only the regrets
of this city lie between us as I sweep away
the dust of all my travels.
Write Better: Read MoreWe didn't believe it, either, but you really can learn a lot from reading a book! If you've ever wanted some worthwhile advice from someone other than your high school English teacher, this is the place to look. The authors below are experts in their fields, well-respected and admired by accomplished writers from all over the world, and we're bringing you a list of their most prized and collectively-effective books. (Tried-and-tested by our worthy administrators, no less!)Write Better: Read More8 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
So what're you waiting for? Learn how to make every word count!
Reading Resource List for the Aspiring Writer
Writing Reminders: Tools, Tips, and Techniques (Jim Burke)
Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer (Roy Peter Clark)
Writing without Teachers (Peter Elbow)
Writing With Power: Techniques for Mastering the Writing Process (Peter Elbow)
DespairYou cannot be the Eve in my garden.Despair9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I do not desire your peddling of
apples and signifiers
as the darkness is choking out the moon
and this bridge leads only to Cain.
I am dreaming in symbols again,
and the madness of pills
is not honey enough for this desert.
This bread is not enough,
fed by cloven hands,
dust in my parched mouth.
Leave me alone!
Already the pounding of battle drums
fill my dull(ed) spaces
and all I can hear
is the falling name of Adam.
Show and TellShow and TellShow and Tell9 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
The idea behind what constitutes 'telling' is probably the most often confused by critics who are new to poetry.
The general notion of it has been around for centuries in all types of literature, but the approach to it was tightened considerably in the 1920s by those of the Modernist school of thought – most notably TE Hulme, HD and Ezra Pound who adapted many tenets of the French school of Symbolism into Imagism.
This leaves us with the current poetic climate, which shuns the idea of a pseudo-poet narrator (as favoured in lyrical poetry – Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, for example) in favour of less intrusive accounts.
The guidelines that it encourages are pretty logical, and mostly just serve to crystallize a critical paradigm present long before it was given this name. It's simply a matter of narrative viewpoint.
If I say 'The man is sad' I am intruding upon the narrative with my own opinion.
If I say 'The man is crying' then the reader makes up their own mind
Februarythe wind blows coldFebruary8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through widowed fields
seducing sighs from
deep deserted grasses
sparrows shiver among
dreaming of whispered
in famished breezes,
in jonquils spearing
upward into sun
of snow thawing
in rising heat
and hungry promises
are kept among
as your wind
and my grasses
teach the world
but it also meansIt's mundane,but it also means9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the soda aisle
and my wandering, walking up
then down. I frown to distract.
And buy the soda you love
because you might, you
might be here to have it. Though
with I need a drink.
I don't need a drink.
The same strength, faux-weak
ness that I will always have,
and tell myself I learned from you.
I buy it, afraid I won't like the taste,
or maybe I will and it'll be there
for a few days squishing along inside me.
It's just fucking soda, but it also means
I still love you.
Inside Every Fat WomanAnd one day there was a mass breakout of thin women.Inside Every Fat Woman8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In shops, on street corners,
Yes it was hard work, but no pain no gain.
Skirts were shorter, tops were tighter,
Nights were longer, voices were louder,
Men were shallower, but more frequent.
Confident? Yes, but
What had they done with my fat friends?
These werent the same women.
They talked of my friends as jailers,
Jailers who were fat, and nothing else, keeping them at bay.
My friends were never smug,
They were never loud or abrasive,
They didnt believe that looks were all and,
Most important, they never put me down.
A couple of months of rigid dieting will soon put you right.
You know what they say:
Inside every fat woman is a thin woman trying to get out.
Their most attractive features
(Their hearts, their souls, their loyalty) had gone, and yet
They were better liked, by some.
I cant believe one of those skinny bitches is trying to get out of me.
Im fat, and good, and kind, and si
TearsMy heart has known such sorrowTears12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
So much grief have these eyes seen
With all the pain that comes of living
I have become a shadow trapped between
Of the sunshine and the night
A fading memory is all that is left
A chance to make a new beginning
Vanished along with the hope in my breast
My mind has known such agony
So much fear has my soul felt
Every moment is an endless torture
From the hand that I was dealt
Lost some where in the middle
Neither here nor there for certain
My mind and peace have been divided
Kept apart by an impassable curtain
My spirit has seen such devastation
As only a loving heart can see
The future has become a bleakness
Shared with others by knowing me
In the instant between night and day
Is where I stand with my fears
And the storm clouds seem endless
Like these blinding rains, which are my tears
Modernity of the Ancients IThe Modernity of the Ancients (I).Modernity of the Ancients I8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When you walk through the forgotten places, Diana,
where happy creatures once dwelt,
how swiftly the marbled sky cracks,
how bitterly your tears fall upon
the silent hills untroubled by the hunt.
Is it so hard to remember, Apollo?
To witness that here, where the grass once bore
the frolicking feet of muses divine,
everything now lies dormant,
decayed by time and the cold hands of neglect?
Once the smell of incense clung like ivy
to temples whose altars lay drowning
in the blood of proud beasts
slaughtered to appease you.
The gifts and hushed prayers of the pious worshipped and adored.
Now the stench of the ages lingers like a lover
over broken relics and rust covered trinkets.
Ink bleeds into parchment and paint blooms across canvas,
the bold words and dreamscapes of the fanciful
both celebrate and lament.
True StoryMy proudest day yet, and to top it allTrue Story8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you wrote your first poem.
As I drove, you told me our car was
a beautiful white horse
without a name.
And to think, you do not even know that song
or that this is a desert.
We slipped on slick oiled streets,
and you soothed my nerves with a gentle,
and the tires gripped.
I pulled up beside a sedan
turned dapple grey by the weather
and we stepped out onto a badly drained lot.
You closed your poem, saying simply,
"The rain turned into glass."
Love at First SightJosie simply could not comprehend how anyone could believe in love at first sight. Actually, she could get quite animated about the issue, especially if some unwitting friend dared to say that was how she met Andrew.Love at First Sight8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was lust at first sight, okay? LUST! I fancied him! He fancied me! We did not love each other until we knew each other! You cant love somebody just on the way they look - I mean, God, how shallow is that?
It was because of her temper that Andrew wasnt quite sure whether he really did love Josie for a while, even after she had been in love with him for weeks. But he got there eventually.
They had just made love in an inexpensive holiday cottage in the Cotswolds when Andrew said, I am going to prove to you that love at first sight can happen.
Josie got a little bit hysterical. Andrew!
The PainThe pain of suffering,The Pain11 years ago in Open More Like This
the feeling of loss.
The person is near,
but will not speak.
The wound still fresh,
the pain is too great.
The person has spoken,
but will not go on.
The end is near,
the pain almost gone.
Their presence has passed,
but the memory remains.
The endeavor is over,
the memory forgotten.
Time stands still,
as the world starts to crumble.
CloseShe only let him start it in the first place because it was taboo. If their families werent so close that they wouldnt like it, she never would have touched him. She had what might be called a strong sexual appetite. Until it started, she hadnt known that his basic animal instincts were just as strong. He was supposed to be like family to her. Hed sit and talk easily to her parents about his family and his education, just like he had always done as a child. But he wasnt a child anymore, and neither was she, and no one seemed to realise. That was what made the whole thing so damn irresistible.Close8 years ago in General More Like This
It wasnt incest, not a bit of it, but it almost felt that way. She enjoyed the secret meetings, lying to her parents, saying she was seeing a friend and then going to him. Usually they stripped noisily in the dark, only catching faint glimpses of each others
Showing, Part OneShowing, Part One11 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
If you've ever taken a class in creative writing, you've no doubt heard the teacher repeat the phrase, "Show, don't tell" over and over again. While there are few hardest rules in creative writing, this persistent little mantra might be the ultimate. Teachers and writers who write about writing spout it out all the time, but what does it mean anyway? After, isn't all writing really "telling" on some level?
It's best to view "showing" not as a single technique, but a summation of the most effective writing techniques. If we know anything about poetry, it's that the best poetry usually conjures specific and concrete images. Beyond language itself, images are the meat and bones of poetry. So goes most of prose as well. The prose writer has the added duty of creating situations and characters that seem real and believable.
Showing invites the reader into the world of out poem and story. If the reader can see, smell, taste, and feel the world through our writing, the reader is more
Lies, Lust and LiteratureJust a tale of another lost cause.Lies, Lust and Literature7 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
A misplaced memory of heartstrings torn.
You should remember the games we played,
And be able to tell me of the plans we made.
But I know that those games had no tokens
And all of those plans were lies ready to be broken.
You're a princess, you're a saint.
It's that red dress, isn't it quaint?
That's what they're saying, I know what's true.
That's what they're saying, they're saying it about you.
Backtrack to where it all started.
Blackjack with my whole heart in.
Fast track it past the tragic ending.
The part where you never learnt tact or mending.
This is my favourite tragedy.
A song in place of a much needed remedy.
The written words of a courageous liar.
Destined to forever burn in the romantic fires.
I can't see this working.
I can't see this perfect.
What you've done to me is made me realise,
I need something more than lackluster love.
Remember the part where we started,
The part where we put our whole hearts in.
Past all the lies, lusts and lit
VegetableOne fine morning, I was dropped out of a tomato. It was nothing new. I had been dropped several times before, from various vegetables. For some strange, unknown reason people always believed that I belonged to none of those.Vegetable8 years ago in Humor More Like This
For those of you who have never been inside a vegetable, it's hard to tell. You must be feeling whatever I had written till now, is plain nonsense. Nonsense. Now, that could be a very misleading term. Nonsense is a genre in itself. A man called Lewis Carroll had played with it in "Alice in Wonderland". From this I'd like to draw the following conclusions:
1. Fools can't write nonsense.
2. Not all nonsense is true
3. Not all things true is good
4. Not everything that's good qualify as creative.
5. Therefore, fools may or may not be creative.
6. Fools may be creative
7. Fools can write nonsense.
Now I'd prove the virtue of nonsense by your reactions. You may have five reactions to this.
1. You are awestruck by the argument: Because the argument is nonsense itself, yo
GeminiGemini8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Symbol: the Twins
Ruling Planet: Mercury
Ruling House: Third House
Body Parts: lungs, arms
Date with destiny: Libra, Aquarius
Run for the hills: Virgo, Pisces
Where you glow: multi-tasking
What makes you tick: Trivial Pursuit
Fitness forecast: doubles tennis
Play date: tandem skydiving
Perfect jobs: librarian, lawyer
Best accessory: a shrug
A sure thing: doing two things at once
Pleasure: options, ambidextrous, knowledge
Pain: being on time, commitment, red tape
Kindness: Your nimble mind and quick call to action make you a natural for problem solving and serving people in immediate need.
What's my line? It takes two to tango.
A Lesson in StonesA Lesson in StonesA Lesson in Stones8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
After the boys mother died, the man drove the boy to a place on the banks of the Wallkill River to skip stones. At this spot, the riverbank was low to the edge of the water and not steep. The boy turned nine three weeks before and the boys mother died two weeks before that. The man knew she was going to, and it is likely the boy also knew. They did not talk about it. Now it was just him and the boy. The man felt a deep welling up inside of him. He did not know what to call it, but it connected with the water. Fear, maybe.
Its important to look for stones that are flat and circular, Eli told the boy. This one here is a good example.
The stone sat at the edge of the embankment. It had a silver luster and part of it rested where the gentle waves of the river could barely kiss it. Where the water
could touch it, the stone was a darker gray.
When you throw the stone against the river, use your wrist, he told the boy.
The boy looked at his father and nodd
The City of AngelsThe sun sets on cloudsThe City of Angels8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Backwards and back in time.
Forming a floating landscape
Of cotton wool and fairy-floss.
Clouds look solid.
Like a second civilization,
With mountains, valleys and plains
Purer than any snowfall.
From this far up
The world seems so surreal,
And I almost expect
To see an angel float by.
But the sky is all but empty,
The clouds, eerily silent.
Like a kind of ghostly heaven
Casting shadows on the earth.
Crossing an invisible line
That criss-crosses the ocean floor,
For suddenly Im a time traveler
Without moving from my seat.
Out the window, a glittering sun
Sinks through the layer of cloud.
Shining shades of pink and orange
On the land of invisible angels.
The very last glow
Of that peculiar pink orb
Sinks and is quickly smothered,
By hungry storm clouds
And starving sea.
A darkening strip appears,
Of red and burning orange.
Like the rim of a giant saucepan
Licked by fire from below.
Then the world becomes dark blue,