Cyril Darkcloud

For those who would like to read Jonathan's poem, it can be found here. Jonathan, I really enjoyed this piece of poetry. Here are a few thoughts on what I think makes it work: Stanza 1 It is unclear whether the point of view is from inside behind blinded windows or from outside on the street. Often, this lack of clarity can hurt a poem but here it adds a great deal of strength as these two points of view produce complimentary readings of the piece. Whether or not it was intentional, this is a great touch. For example: If the narrator is inside, behind the blinded windows, he is ‘blinded’ to what happens outside – he hears the cars rather than sees them, he has no sky because he cannot see it [only a ceiling] and the sound of rain is what would make him conscious that the sky is not blue. If the narrator is outside, one has the feel and sight of a rainy day in which the comfort of what is inside is closed away behind blinded windows. The neat thing here, is that from either perspective, the focus is on what is happening outside. Transition Point - The simplicity of a single word, ‘wet,’ again is well chosen and well-placed here especially with how it plays off of the final two lines of the poem and makes a bridge from the first stanza to the second. Stanza 2 The focus shifts – no longer are we concerned with the outside, rather the action is entirely inside. The reader is free to assume that this is what takes place behind the ‘blinded windows’ above. In keeping with the shift in place and focus, you also describe the impressions of different senses – touch replaces hearing. Despite the difference, the loneliness of the rainy street under dark skies [outside] is mirrored by the loneliness of a room that is too warm and whose windows are blinded [inside]. Inside is disconnected from outside and both are lonely. Reaction Point - Great touch! A personal action that contrasts with the moisture of rain and that really caries a lot of weight in its 2 words. You separate them with a comma and yet one can also read them as ‘dry swallow’. Cool. Final Word - Again, here one word says a lot. What seems to make this single word work so well as a concluding statement is the movement you set up between the rainy outside and the loneliness of being inside on a rainy day. Because of the way you develop the images and themes of the poem, rain can mean a few things here all of which tie in well to the rest of the poem. This is a super example of the use of structure and images to work together to say something much more powerfully than either structure alone or images alone could. From what I’ve read of your stuff, Jonathan, the images seem to come easily to you – this poem shows you can do good things with the structure of verses as well. Structure is the harder thing to master and learn, but this is a fine start.

When I read your words what do I see? Just the wit, the insight and the creativity of one whose return to posting here is a very good thing. Nicely structured, especially with the variance you use in the 3rd stanza. The contrast between the narrator’s act of looking and the interlocutor’s seeing is a nice touch and works well in a poem of this length. Well-crafted and enjoyable.

Very nicely done, Yui! I've posted some lengthier remarks in the Critics Corner.

OOPs. Meant to put this in the Critics Corner. Could one of the elders please reloctae it?

Yui's story can be found here. Yui, this is one of the most powerful pieces of writing I have read on this board. It is stunning, striking and evocative all at once. If I make bold enough to offer a few thoughts on it, please receive them in light of the previous statement which is my overall reaction to this piece. 1. You begin with a strong statement of regret that I found myself hoping would be explicated and followed up a bit more deeply. I wanted to see this regret manifested more concretely in the subsequent paragraphs. 2. The use of the second person form of address usually turns me off as it often marks weak writing. In this case I was pleasantly surprised that it did not. Still, this section could be strengthened a bit. For example, what if I as reader do not feel ‘compelled’ to listen? A strengthening of the hooks in the first paragraph could easily overcome this. Again, however, the use of 2nd person in a narrative is not a simple thing and you have done this remarkably well. 3. At times, whether you realize it or not, your work is quite evocative of a number of biblical passages – particularly elements of Job, Jeremiah and Wisdom which speak of similar themes. On a purely literary level as these are also some of the most lyrically beautiful sections of the bible, it might be worth exploring the points of contact. There is a similarity in the visceral lyricism in both your work and the aforementioned parts of scripture that is striking and that, for me, added an additional depth to your words. 4. The reference to the death of the mother during childbirth [if I read you correctly here] is quite well done. The understatement is powerful. 5. The one real weak point of the story is with its final paragraphs which simply do not have the strength of those that precede them. Here you need to do more than simply be a reporter. As a reader I found myself wanting to make a connection with the experience of the narrator and being frustrated by only getting a description of events. The regret mentioned at the beginning of the story should be manifested here. Let your reader know and share the grief. The stronger these last paragraphs can be, the stronger the ending of the story. 6. What is this fate which operates so strongly and strangely in the world of flesh and blood? Again, I must thank you for a thoroughly enjoyable read. Indeed, I’ve read it over several times and enjoyed it each time through. Well done, Yui, and I hope to see more of your stuff in the near future.

*LOL* Not sure how well the mantle of "serious writer" fits me, but thanks for the compliment of including my name in such fine comapny, Peredhil Kendricke, You show a very strong command, in places, of rhythm and language and have the makings of a fine poem here. It does, however, read [at least to me] like a very promising but also very unfinished piece of work. That you produced this in so short a time as 10 minutes is a testament to real talent. Half the battle in a good piece of writing is getting the content securely onto the page -- you've done that and done it well. The other half of the battle, and sometimes the longer and more frustrating part is taking a hard look at the content with an eye to improving it. Good criticism, like good writing also takes time - time to appreciate a piece of writing, time to form one's thoughts about it and time to put those thoughts into writing. I'll try and take some time in the next few days to put some thoughts on this piece together and post them in the Critics' Corner. Promise me this, however: That whether or not you ultimately take any suggestions that I or another reader might give you, you will revisit this piece of writing. A start this good is worth more than 10 minutes of your time, however inspired those 10 minutes may have been. Give it an hour or two at some point and see what happens. I for one would be very interested in seeing what you can do with it.

While I have no connection to the Archmage or Everquest online worlds, my name does have a roleplaying background – it’s the name of the character I created to play on the IronWorks gaming roleplaying forum a while back. As the character himself is a grim and quiet man wandering in exile and looking to return home [Yes, I do enjoy the Odyssey that much *LOL*] to the stormswept mountains of his people, I wanted a name that was evocative of a simple strength and an affinity for storms and Cyril Darkcloud seemed to fit the bill rather nicely.

Bending, he places a hand on Rune’s shoulder to help her maintain balance. “My thanks,” he says quietly. He rises and, smiling his gratitude for the kind words that the others have spoken, steps off the edge of the balcony into the gusting winds that move with such freedom about this board.

Merci beaucoup.

I'm a bit surprised that people seem to have primarily picked up on the more playful features of this poem. Almost all of my stuff is written to be read out loud, and this piece was actually written with a more cynical and darkly humorous tone of voice in mind -- of course if one does not supply that vocal inflection at the outset, these words can easily produce a rather different experience.

Be patient, my dears, I am not the most prolific of the Pen, but I am going to produce other works. Alors, Celes, je les attendrai avec patience.

Jonathan, I’ve spent a bit of time reading the poetry you’ve shared on the boards the last couple days and I must say that I find this to be your strongest piece. This is not to say I find the others weak, but rather that on both structural as well as thematic levels I find a cohesiveness about this poem that is particularly striking. I’ll post my thoughts on this in more detail in the Critics Corner sometime during the next couple days, but I wanted to at the very least convey my appreciation of this particular work sooner rather than later. Thanks for a very enjoyable read!

The whispered words of shouted thoughts fill the air between us, and the simple act of drawing breath mingles whispered shouts within us. The air is heavy with the syllables of pain exhaled between us, and we fill our lungs with the spent and spoken breath of what we keep within us. Breathe we must, and yet our breathing kills us.

Charmant et bien escrit! Un oevre de un coeur plein d’affection et souvenirs d’enfance, non? [ Malheureusement, me français est limité! ]

A prefatory note: Augustine is widely considered to have invented with his Confessions the Western literary genre of autobiography – the writing of a narrative of one’s life in the attempt to understand and express one’s self. The following is a reflection upon the way words not only are employed by Augustine as the medium of his narrative, but are also in a mysterious way the very matter of his life. While the Confessions is a widely acknowledged classic of spirituality, it is also a work of no small philosophical and literary power whose use of words to construct an understanding of self and life has valuable lessons for any who would take the task of writing seriously. All of that formal academic language to say that this is posted simply because I believe Augustine does some really cool things with words that are well-worth a written exploration and response. And, since the bulk of my own writing is in the form of the reflective essay, this is my first attempt at sharing that aspect of my work online. Perhaps the most fitting place to begin a consideration of Augustine’s Confessions is with its most obvious element -- it is a composition of words. A single composition in that it forms a single documentary reflection upon a singular life, but also a composition possessing something of a plural character. The words of the Confessions are arranged in turn to produce narrative, soliloquy, philosophical discourse and prayer. These words are, as well, words of address directed to a multiplicity of dialogue partners. Providing structural and thematic continuity to the work is the “conversational monologue” of Augustine’s speech to God. This is not, however, a private conversation as Augustine himself is all too aware of his audience, an audience in whose presence and hearing these words are delivered, for whose benefit this conversation takes place, and, arguably, the true addressee of his speaking. There are other conversations as well, that of Augustine with the ideas of time and beauty and goodness and evil; of a man with his past, with the restlessness of his life and the rest he has come to desire; that of a child with his mother and of this same mother with the God to whom Augustine so deliberately addresses his words. It is a work of conversations within conversations, a multi-level discourse, perhaps even a multiplicity of discourses, in which the disparate elements of a man’s experience seemingly grope for the words that will allow them to articulate themselves in a unified voice. Augustine’s life was, in fact, a life of words. A life of struggling to articulate needs and desires, of seeking adequate expression, adequate words, with which to form questions and propose ideas. His education was one of the mastery of words and the diverse modes of human expression. His relationship with his mother is described frequently in terms of words spoken between them and her words, spoken to God, on his behalf -- indeed, her very tears are described as if they were speech. Friendship for Augustine seems to find its greatest articulation in depth of conversation, as if the exchange of words somehow involves the exchange of life. The desperate seeking after love which dominates his life, his journey simultaneously away from and toward the beautiful Mystery he names God, is a seeking through words, a journey of words, a questing by means of words in pursuit of truth. It is the misuse of words that seduces and enslaves him, his inability to comprehend the words of the Old Testament that prevents him from embracing Christianity, the words of Cicero that turn his heart to the pursuit of truth, the emptiness of the beautiful words of Faustus which cannot satisfy him and the fullness of the likewise beautiful words of Ambrose that entices him with the promise of the eventual satisfaction of his deepest hungers. From his groping after words that would allow him to give utterance to something concerning the Ineffable that begins his work to the emptiness of his hearing being gradually penetrated and filled by the words of Ambrose, Augustine’s inward journey to the truth about himself and his God and his outward “Aeneid” to Rome are described in terms of the emptiness and the fullness of words. Words, Augustine asserts repeatedly, are vessels, containers that may be filled with the rich wine of truth or the illusory goodness of fiction. Indeed, for Augustine, the notion of evil as non-being and the non-reality of fiction are closely related. It is the emptiness of his words, the emptiness of fiction masquerading as truth, that leads Augustine into the strange nothingness of a life built upon a dream mistaken for reality -- an emptiness underscored by Monica’s dream disclosing more of truth than the ‘reality’ constructed by the words of the Manicheeism he had come to embrace. Like words, however, one’s hearing may be empty or full, a hearing disposed to emptiness or to fullness. The Old Testament was closed to Augustine as his life was not disposed to the fullness of its words, hearing only a literalist emptiness. It was his seeking after truth, for vessels that are not simply beautiful but are also filled, that gradually changed the disposition not simply of his speaking but of his hearing as well. The Confessions, then, are an account, in words, of a life shaped by words, words of truth and words of fiction, words that may resonate in one’s depths or simply ring with hollow echoes. It is also a work whose words claim for themselves the resonance of truth and demand that the reader hear their fullness.

Having applied to the EZ-board version of the Pen with a roleplayed reflection upon words and spaces. it seems somehow right to begin posting here by reflecting a moment on the movement to this new space for words...... The posting has begun, the gusting of thoughts and words has shifted and the currents of its movement lead to another place. There is a curious excitement within these words that move past him and he notes that even syllables of his own speaking have found place and welcome in another clime. Again the blank and open space of the empty pages of his notebook holds its field of inviting possibility before his pen. And as this new wind of ideas and words moves about him he begins to write: Space, even of the virtual kind, is a curious thing – not something vacant and empty awaiting the presence of bodies and lives to fill it, but a reality brought into being by those very bodies and lives that are said to be its occupants. It is a paradoxical thing – a product of the separation of that which remains related and connected. Space, much like silence, is necessary for speech and the measure of the meeting of lives through words is not the yardstick of physical distance but that of the depth of possibility in the space created between them. And again, as on that distant spring day, he tears the page from his notebook and filling his lungs with the word laden air about him reads it aloud. He disappears as he reads, life and form falling into the spaces between the hastily scribbled words and soon there is nothing were he stood save a single scrap of paper adrift in the breeze. As it falls, the page is caught by the gusting motion of words and rides this current to a new place where it falls near the welcoming margins created by other acts of written speech. Cyril Darkcloud Initiate Untitled 27 previous posts

Every now and then, one stumbles across a book the just needs to brought to the attention of others. In my case it is the happy discovery of a very fine transaltion of Homer's Odyssey. One of the things that can make reading the ancient classics more of a chore than a pleasant experience is the quality of the translation. It is unfortunately not always easy to find a translation of a work like the Odyssey that manages to capture the power of the original Greek in English that is accessible to the general reader. A few years ago, Robert Fagles put out a translation of the Odyssey which is nothing short of spectacular. Not only is it faithful to the original language, it’s use of English is powerful and compelling. Picking up this particular version has been one of my best book purchases in quite some time –– it is really a pleasure to read. As an example, here are the book's opening lines: Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home. But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove –– the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all, the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun and the Sungod blotted out the day of their return. Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, start from where you will –– sing for our time too. The Odyssey will always be read, it has been said, because much of life involves the frustration and struggle of seeking one’s home. It is also one of those great works of the past that has established the standard of the telling of heroic tales that is still employed in the fantasy novels written today. For those who would like a good introduction to the classics, I cannot recommend this work more highly.

The self, it seems, is a fragile and fragmented thing cobbled together from shards and scraps of meanings both perceived and imposed. In speaking of it, by turns we define, create, stretch and limit it according to the narrow grasp of words. In sharing it we expose it to buttressing or shattering by stony shards of meaning held in other hands. A very well-conceived and well executed piece, Peredhill. Your development of the metaphor of the stained glass window is both creative and provocative. You also do a fine job of conveying the visceral passion of the poet who needs to speak. Being able to do both in a single piece of writing is no small thing. A thoroughly enjoyable and stimulating read!

Bury Me by the Bigtop After I'm dead, just slide me and my box in somewhere near the back of the parade -- behind the feathered horses and the acrobats and the clowns in the polka dot car, and after the chain of flatbed trailers carrying leopards and lions and a tiger or two staring out of the bars of a rusty steel cage. Just have my uncles or cousins or children or friends or whoever's in charge of lugging my box fall into line and step to the music of that calliope thing once the elephants go by. Yeah, just have the bearers drag me ahead of the wagon of monkeys with their tricks and their squeals and the club-footed dwarf with balloons. Let them shuffle in time with the fat ladies, the tattooed misfits, the sword eating gypsy and that cute little girl who walks the high wire. And let everyone else leave their cars at the church and step in behind the parade in their dark suits and dresses and shiny black shoes that pinch their feet when they walk. Let them follow the clatter of rattling trucks full of tents and the odor of butter from those little white popcorn carts. Let's have the whole operation wander through town bouncing over the potholes and chewed up old asphalt that makes up our streets with its rumble and swagger and its music and shaking and squealing of monkeys and belches of laughter pouring out of its guts until it comes to a stop at the little league field at the base of the hill by the creek. And when they're breaking out boxes and putting up tents and the grunting and swearing are flowing out thick through yellow teeth hidden behind lips that are cracked and swollen and scarred, have them dig me a hole by the center tent's pole and then let them drop me on in. And when the tents are set up and the cages arranged and the ring master has loosened his throat, pile everyone onto those splintered oak bleachers and pass out the hot dogs and the popcorn and pink cotton candy and let them sit back and take in the show 'cuz if I'm in heaven I'll be partying down and won't want nobody to cry, and if I'm in hell, then the clowns may as well milk a couple cheap laughs from that tired old bit with the pie in the face while they're tromping around in those big floppy shoes over the top of my grave.

Are words truly spoken if they never reach an ear, or pages truly written if they never greet the reader’s eye? Words are spoken not simply for saying but also for hearing, and pages are written not simply for writing but mostly for reading. The risk of reading and the danger of hearing is that life be re-written in words that are spoken by a tongue not one’s own or in the scribbled ink of a stranger’s pen. A strong and visceral piece of writing with a good sustained use of the book metaphor and the theme of reading. Well done!

Coming soon ..... long seem hours spent waiting ..... Presence of words not really a poem ..... Prose that evokes Almost a Dragon ...... but also an author well worth the wait. Looking forward to seeing where this goes.

I've never thought of myself as particularly musical, Icarus. However, I do enjoy playing with rhythmic combinations of syllables. Just about all of my verse is composed more for being spoken out loud than read silently. BTW - Were you looking over my shoulder? I did in fact find myself muttering it under my breath the other day while heading out to a fairly important meeting *LOL* - Cyril

Disorientation Falling forward. Falling under. Falling inward. Empty air. Steps uncertain and unsteady. Fingers grasping. Empty air. Eyes unfocused. Silence echos. Ground receding. Empty air. Breathing rapid. Heartbeats stumble. Lips are speaking. Empty air. Falling. Falling. Simply falling. Falling. Falling. Empty air.

Read at night words such as these might haunt one’s sleep with news of the emptiness of dreams. Read at dawn such words name well the starkness of the real which lingers and must be faced with the fading comfort of slumber’s dreams. A very well-crafted piece in which every word is a word well used. Fine use and development of a sustained theme that in its very specificity seems to point beyond itself. An enjoyable and stimulating read. Well done!

There’s a mutedness that comes with falling snow that muffles sounds and changes sight. Life’s usual colors fall silent as Ground speaks with a brighter voice than Sky. And whispered songs from the distant edge of sight drift into view and call to the eye in the startling tongue of trifles vested in white. Voices change in falling snow and footsteps alternate between playfulness and caution within a quietness soon to melt in the busy light of sun.