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About Literature / Artist Senior Member mohawk menaceUnknown Group :icontransliterations: transliterations
from one world to another
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Deviant for 9 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Random from Inspire.

Literature
Mountain
Everest eats people:
The glacier cracks a hundred metres deep
swallow the climbers that slip like flies
to the pitch white throat. It chews them down
then spits them out centuries later, still fresh,
their flesh just slightly mulched and brown.
Yet Himalaya's tourists convey themselves up pre-fixed ropes
wheezing thick air through gas masks
safely wrapped in North Face insulated clothes,
trudging upwards in procession - multitudinous droves.
K2 once shed a house of rock where guidance ropes
were hitched. Two dozen novice mountaineers
stranded in the death zone's hell.
One by one they chanced the cliff,
some lived, some froze, some fell.
All this waste to say
'I conquered the tallest mountains there to climb.'
By pulling hand over hand on rope, following a line.
:iconAbCat:AbCat
:iconabcat:AbCat 6 1
Ataraxia by kellymckernan Ataraxia :iconkellymckernan:kellymckernan 145 6
Literature
Turn It Up
Walter was led through the facility flanked by four men in combat armor carrying guns. He'd walked these corridors for nearly a decade, but this was all very new to him.
At his lab, the soldiers stopped, ushered him inside and turned their backs as the doors slid shut between them.
"Doctor Koen," the voice sounded foreign, Soviet maybe? "We need your assistance in handling this little mess that you've made."
The voice belonged to a suit, so black as to be difficult to look at directly, in stark contrast to the almost albino complexion of the man himself.
"Your assistant..."
Walter cut him off. "My wife."
The suit paused, steepled spider-like fingers together and pursed his lips before continuing.
"Your wife, has become infected with the substance from the crash site. She's been contained in the hangar bay, but we are unable to subdue her without risking damage to the facility."
Walter's attention was drawn to the displays scattered about the room, each now showing security footage from
:iconSRSmith:SRSmith
:iconsrsmith:SRSmith 9 18
Foothills by burningmonk Foothills :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 292 5 City Glow by burningmonk City Glow :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 332 19
Literature
the flower backwards
1.
half brown liquor
half severed lily-pad
2.
I write
with my finger
parting the cold water
with a mild cursive
fretting the
surface
unhealing &
blackened
by the rocks
beneath
3.
I write your name,
then the name of your favorite flower.
then your name backwards,
the flower backwards.
4.
the more I write
the more wounded the water becomes
until I am gesturing
meaninglessly in a trance,
the ripples
painting themselves
purple on blue,
black on red,
glass
on water.
5.
I scribble in blind
lazy arcs
as if scraping my finger
into damp earth,
reaching for a stone
or a buried coin,
a stray root
or a botched seed.
I dig into the water's
aching cold
for an emptiness
to whisper calmly into,
to drink
silence from.
6.
I draw a crescent moon
then a shredded ponderosa,
a doorway pulsing with memory
& then a river
bleeding
stars.
7.
I draw
your features
from the water
half petal
half backwards
until the ache
from the cold
reverses want
with need,
reflex
with fate
& I can stop peering
through drenched h
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 10 2
Prayer by burningmonk Prayer :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 202 21 Children of the Sun by TobiasRoetsch Children of the Sun :icontobiasroetsch:TobiasRoetsch 326 33 Sunrise Ahead by Miguel-Santos Sunrise Ahead :iconmiguel-santos:Miguel-Santos 1,312 69 Cybercity by burningmonk Cybercity :iconburningmonk:burningmonk 252 23 Tribute to Earle by Raphael-Lacoste Tribute to Earle :iconraphael-lacoste:Raphael-Lacoste 722 9
Literature
Forces
It wasn't without guilt
that I cut the plum branches
from the still dormant tree
in the last week of February,
careful though I was to cut a criss
-crossed set, setting the ugly branches
in  my mother-in-law's urn.
I wondered if the part left
undisturbed envied  
the branches, growing
green and blossoming
inside, and if the boughs,
forced into early blush
grew bored or arrogant,
fluffed up with pride
before, before their time,
they died there, drying
in my sunlit window.
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 3 2
Pier by Rizone Pier :iconrizone:Rizone 80 10 Beach and Birds by TanyaSimpson Beach and Birds :icontanyasimpson:TanyaSimpson 42 19
Literature
Lodgepole
Most Western towns were built around something.  Some were built around gold and silver mines.  Others were built around trade posts and lumber mills.  And some were built around crossroads or railway stations.  But the town of Lodgepole was built around Nothing.  
“No, really.  Lodgepole was built around Nothing,” says Coyote.  
“How can it be built around nothing?”  I continue to brood in the back seat as the car slips into the town-turned-county seat.  Sagebrush and cottonwood start to share space with grass lawn and flowerbed.  Buildings cease to be occasional shacks and some gain a second story.  Rounded foothills big enough to be called mountains in other places presage granite up-thrusts to the southwest.  A frantic creek big enough to be called a river in some places breaks and rolls and jounces northeast over rocks big enough to be called boulders in still other places.  The road and the r
:iconShaudawn:Shaudawn
:iconshaudawn:Shaudawn 2 1

Random from DDs I Featured

Literature
Buford
"They're gone again Mom!" The distraught wail of my son wafted in through the still open door.
I pulled my head and a load of flailing clothes out of the dryer. "Oh no, sweetie, you're kidding!" I followed the cold draft to the open door. Buford was standing at the  bottom of the steps, tears welling up in his blue, seven-year-old eyes. He pointed to the spot where his Jack-o-Lantern used to sit.
My own heart sunk to the spidery frost formations on the steps. He was a timid kid, Buford. He was fiercely intelligent, and he took pride in his work, but he got discouraged easily.
His grin had been so unreserved last night when he had shown Bret and I the lop-sided cackle of his Jack-o-Lantern, his bright little face smudged with the orange-yellow juice and webs of pumpkin guts still trailing from his elbows and fingers. It had been a project of many hours of scooping and carving and even more drawing and redrawing the perfect face. It was his second one this year.
"You said it wo
:iconTheElectricMonk:TheElectricMonk
:icontheelectricmonk:TheElectricMonk 143 32
Literature
Housewarming
She opens windows
in  their wintery home, hopes
to let the cold out
when it doesn't work
she scratches matches to life
and burns the house down.
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 178 32
Literature
Even Though
There will be no caged fingers,
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.
There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.
There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.
There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.
There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.
:iconpretty-yin:pretty-yin
:iconpretty-yin:pretty-yin 146 41
Literature
exhibit.
Nanny thinks the carpet is too soft
to be my torturecage
and the sofa and endtables are poor
jailbars, but we
are feline and we're too tough to care
bigsister and littlesister are lioncubs today
baby lionesses, authentically,
we even lap milk from
ceramic bowls, bellies swollen from
the orders we give: 'emily, you're the
zookeeper.
Get us more milk.'
She hates serving us, she's only four
but she's getting strong and someday
she'll earn predator status.
(give thanks that we do not consume you, emily,
your fingers peek through the cagebars and
they are white and young and blood
is sweeter than breastmilk)
Roar. We are learning to growl
and snarl.
I tried to wrestle littlesister but we collided with
Nanny's gnarled sandalfeet and
she's mad.
So am I, Nanny.
I am a lioness today and I
am fierce.
Sarah tosses her mane and I explain patiently (she's only six) that lionesses are free,
don't need manes to chase antelopes
she's too young to care
if her imagination grants her maned masculine lion
:iconInkatMidnight:InkatMidnight
:iconinkatmidnight:InkatMidnight 177 79
Literature
swimming, not drowning.
when you're waist-deep in a love you know you shouldn't have even dipped your toes into, you spend a lot of time cursing the current. you try to stamp your feet but find the sand's up to your ankles and seaweed is tied in bows around your calves. the waves begin to climb, breaking on your collarbones and splashing your face. breath seems to take up more space in your chest. you bring air into your body in the shortest bursts possible and it spills back out like machine gun fire.
sometimes, though-- mostly in the first hours after sunrise, when you're alone with the space she inhabited on your couch and her perfume on the back of your knees-- you plunge your face below the surface and smile up at the sky, dragging your arms through the water just to feel its resistance against your skin. you pretend that holding your breath is a decision you're choosing to make rather than a necessity for survival. you pretend the waves are lively and invigorating instead of terrifying and beyond your c
:iconSatah:Satah
:iconsatah:Satah 204 84
Literature
Brackish
After the wet season, before
the midsummer night's drought,
I flight for the floodplains, where
the northern downpour bleeds out
and sweeps its love to the mouth
of my lungs. I sleep in the crux
of an oxbow, let my dreams flux
and flow fractured, deltaic. For this
is the way I piece myself apart,
a resolution, my absolution
in a new avulsion.
During the day, I move south
towards the river mouth, picking
pebbles, coral fangs from the riverbed.
A loose tooth is a common truth
in these parts. Bones are febrile,
eyelashes are made of chalk, salt.
Tears turn brackish. They cake
and crack on the flats of my hands.
This is my Pangaea,
this swollen geography,
this slacken land.
The point of no return.
Here, all else ends.
By dusk I meet the saltmarsh
and dehusk, grow halophytic
in the nightlight. I pull out
my hair, my fingernails, and
fill the gaps in my spine
with reed rhythms, saline.
The final rite: turning flesh to grass.
Tomorrow, morning mist
will drag the whitewash back,
ashes to ash.
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces
:iconangel-in-pieces:angel-in-pieces 125 51
Literature
Actinium Dreams
Y'all have any idea how downright frustrating it is to be the granddaughter of one of the most powerful and celebrated superheroes ever — Ulysses Randall Martin, the iconic Mr. Uranium — and yet have no special talent of your own?
I mean, it's not like I don't have my own elemental superpower: like almost all of Grandpa's progeny, I do. But how much good is the ability to produce hard-hitting Alpha and destructive Beta rays if you can barely control it and never quite turn it off? At least I'm not as bad off as my son Frankie; I love him to death, but when left alone the poor boy is totally unstable and downright dangerous: the worst possible mix of autism, Alpha rays and ADHD.
And I do at least have my own nemesis, of sorts: the cadre of good ol' boys who call themselves DOTA, whose main ability seems to be workin' together to nullify and trap super-powered elementals. But t'be honest, they don't seem to have anything against me personally; I think they just have a ge
:iconHaveTales-WillTell:HaveTales-WillTell
:iconhavetales-willtell:HaveTales-WillTell 166 136
Literature
Rock Me
autumn blunders in, clumsy
stiff fingers frosted still
by early winds, rocking trees
back and forth
red leaves splatter the ground
paint drops, hanging from drooping
branches, rotten fruit still litters the sidewalks
i head south for the fall with the ducks.
the train creaks like aching joints
there's a crow on
my windowsill, ruffling his feathers
the trees flash by
red -yellow-red
my ticket's got a hole in the middle
from being folded over and over
the crow says "summer ain't that great, Peach Girl."
i watch the sky and ignore his clicking black beak
"the autumn's gonna follow
right behind ya
'n turn the whole world red-yellow-red
at yer heels."
i know in a week
the only green left will be my sweater
holes in the elbows, stringy cuffs
but i waddle like a duck
towards the leftover southern summer.
"i'm not ready for jack frost yet."
i tell him.
he laughs.
"get ready. the autumn storms are a-comin'
an' there ain't nothin' on heaven or earth to stop 'em."
:iconSugarHeartedGirl:SugarHeartedGirl
:iconsugarheartedgirl:SugarHeartedGirl 141 47
Literature
Poetry Self-Edit Checklist

Poetry Self-Edit Quick Start Guide and Checklist

Introduction
The idea behind this is to give newer poets a way to better edit their poetry themselves, without having to rely as much on an external editor.  It can be frustrating, especially for new poets to request feedback from a friend, or worse, to post a poem, and have all of the responses be about grammatical errors and other details.  We write poetry to convey ideas and emotions, and when something is off technically about the poem it distracts the reader.  When a reader is distracted enough to notice an error or other problem it means they might spend the time they might otherwise have spent glowing about your poem to post a comment correcting you instead.  
After this introduction is over the checklist will be as brief as possible while retaining its utility.  The idea is to serve as an organizational tool and a reminder rather than to educate on effective
:iconMahi-Fish:Mahi-Fish
:iconmahi-fish:Mahi-Fish 218 56
Literature
The Farmers Son
We sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever mutter,
   
and the wind slowed to a stillness
and the rain moved in and our voices gave way
to what my Father would call The Lords Music,
the pitter-patter of water
on the dry and flaking earth.
:iconbrassteeth:brassteeth
:iconbrassteeth:brassteeth 103 79
Literature
Senryu Series 11
1.
election day
choosing the devil
I know
2.
first date
her parents question
our future
3.
road trip
the kids unpack
a squabble
4.
massage therapy
another old knot
of heartbreak
5.
deep recession
I add more spice
to the ramen
6.
televangelist
available on Itunes
salvation
7.
job well done
from the boss...
blue moon
8.
18th birthday
a postcard
from the army
9.
cemetery
even here
the poor section
10.
midnight diner
everyone feeds
the jukebox
11.
haunted house
we let the youngest
go first
:iconLaurence55:Laurence55
:iconlaurence55:Laurence55 133 0
Literature
On conversations
I
have upset the order
of things, birds
fall fast and featherflappingly from
shaken skies, and leaves
curl backwards into trees
which snap
from frost in summer, my heart
is a bell that rings until
glass shatters and frost falls
fearful on the ground and I
just do not know how
to tell you.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 160 44
Literature
An Apple for the Teacher
Her name was Miss Mills.  She was twenty-two years old and fresh out of college, and my son was a student in her first ever kindergarten class.  He fell in love with her on the first day of school.  He never told me this, of course, but a mother always knows.  He came home that first day and he sparkled as he told me everything that had happened, how Miss Mills had read them a story from a brightly colored picture book and how he had hung on her every word.
"And I want to get her an apple," he announced.
"An apple?" I asked.  I was peeling grapes for his lunch the next day.
"Yes," he said, "it was in the book we read today.  The kids, they gave their teacher an apple, and I think it would be a nice thing to do."
"Alright," I said, "we will get some apples.  Any kind of apple in particular?"
He thought about it.  "A big red one."
The next morning he marched off to school with his big proud apple held delicat
:iconErlebnisse:Erlebnisse
:iconerlebnisse:Erlebnisse 554 312
Literature
Soft
The rain comes in
from the mountainside
and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,
the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.
It quietens.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.
:iconsaartha:saartha
:iconsaartha:saartha 161 61
Daily Deviations I featured during my time as a volunteer and staff member.

Wow Thing

Tue Oct 2, 2018, 10:53 PM
Listening to:
Station X 0 - Wow Thing

Skin by ginkgografix


Not a meme title...
Though it sure reads like one, doesn't it? :P I haven't done a journal where I just share stuff from my inbox in a while, so I figure if I really want to get back into the swing of being around here, I oughta do it the way I used to do it best: journals. So, here's some stuff going around in the community right now! Feel free to share stuff with me, also.

:bulletblue: Lyricanna's cat needs surgery!
:bulletblue: All Hallow's Tales 2018: Sympathy For The Devil
:bulletblue: October's Deviousness Recipient is...
:bulletblue: September's Literature DDs
:bulletblue: A tribute to MagicalJoey
:bulletblue: New Lit group in the making: WeAreSoLit 

Recent art favorites:
The Daphne BushMother moved us often, baggage and boxes
jumbled in a truck, any number
of crying kids, and her daphne
in its Oriental pot. Even when we'd stay
to see the spring
flower-beds in bloom, long enough
to harvest vegetables grown from seed,
the daphne remained
in its place on the porch, cradled in clay
and whiskered Chinese dragons.
You can't transplant this,
she'd tell us, delicately
brushing the deep jade of its leaves,
ladling water onto its roots,
It won't thrive. And every year,
wherever we were,
the stunted thing returned her love
with perfume and a thousand pink hearts.
   Survivalist NewsletterDear Survivalists,
In light of the recent remission of people
we are writing you today.
You see, the exit plans are only provisions
for leaving a beautiful sort of language
of fossil records,
like entire rogue planets in red bloom,
as warnings between the architecture
of a fresh wreckage.
And the most romantic spin is that we've succeeded
but only briefly-
a re-imagination
of a scenario of beached whales;
the reckless communism of the sun.
To those who are receiving this:
God has been missing for several years
and a body was never found.
Our advice is to desecrate your atlases
as a sacrament to whatever it is
that we've pissed off this time.
Cut them down, cut them and spread them
across the lamp, the walls,
the threshold of your shitty apartment
and take drugs that remind you of the people
you once were
because everything is wonderful
but only on paper.
And on paper we must remain,
upright and angry. We must remain
with our music and stories. We must remain.
Our assurance is in your s
   Shaman by BEETLEBAINE

Music corner:


deviantID

ikazon
mohawk menace
Artist | Literature
Hi there! I'm a storyteller of sorts. Here on DA, I was a gallery moderator from 2010 to 2011, a community volunteer from 2011 to 2012, and a staff member from 2012 to 2015. Feel free to say hi, I don't bite!

Deviousness Award

Deviousness Award
A deviant for nine years, ikazon is a monumentally influential member of DeviantArt. A champion of DeviantArtís literature community, heís contributed his own writing and journal skins to the community since he first joined DeviantArt. In 2011, ikazon became a Community Volunteer, shining a light on undiscovered pieces in both the DeviantArt related and literature galleries. His dedication to the community quickly made him a beloved figure on DeviantArt. Soon after, in 2012, he was hired as a full-time staff member, where he ran multiple community projects, such as the 2014 and 2015 Valentineís Day Exchange!

However, ikazonís contributions to the community extended past his time as a community volunteer and a staff member. From contributing journal skins to the CalendarProject to leaving encouraging comments for his fellow community members, ikazonís supporting presence has been felt all across DeviantArt.

Weíre proud to name ikazon as the Deviousness Award recipient for March 2016!
-awarded March 2016

Comments


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:iconthegalleryofeve:
TheGalleryOfEve Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2018  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you so kuch for the fave!!! :iconflyingheartsplz::iconkissingplz::tighthug::iconflyingheartsplz:
How’s it going, my dear??? :iconloveloveplz:
Reply
:iconikazon:
ikazon Featured By Owner Oct 7, 2018   Writer
No worries :hug: Life is busy as ever, lots to do on the work front but doing what I can. How are you? :D
Reply
:iconrigiroony:
Rigiroony Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
It there an account just for DA announcements? Like site update and that all? I can't find one...if there isn't ya'll should really consider it.
Reply
:iconikazon:
ikazon Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2018   Writer
Hi there! I haven't worked here for several years now :giggle: You might want to watch hq and communityrelations for more official updates from staff and the volunteer team. :)
Reply
:iconrigiroony:
Rigiroony Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
awesome, thanks
Reply
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