Da_Yog

I apologize for posting another one that is so long. (OK maybe not. ) This poem exists as a reworking of a Nietzschian parable. I kept much of his original message and then spliced in much of my own philosophy concerning life. The Beast, The Wasteland, and The Serpent are highly symbolic so please don't take this as a literal read. I suppose that will make it quite difficult for many. At any rate I would encourage each reader to bring his own experiences to the poem and make of it what you will. I am Man! I—The Beast A Beast! A fierce Beast: Of tanned fur, Clashing claws, And gnashing teeth, Stalked me In my ignorant bliss. Fear, emotion, instinct Overwhelm logic. I ran—fled— Terror stricken! The Beast— A predator Bred for speed— Feasted on my flesh! I lamented An end of Gnashing teeth, Rending claws. The moment seemed to stretch forever. It was: A moment of truth, A moment without form, A moment of nothing—but thought. "Cogito ergo sum," I bellowed! The Beast—thus confronted—was banished. I, in contemplation, awoke— In a Wasteland. II—The Wasteland There are no Beasts in the Wasteland. It is a place of dry sand, A place of dead sage, A place of doomed souls. I wandered the Wasteland cataloging what I might find— Should it somehow have become useful. Such logic, such thoughts, pleased me greatly. Happy was I with my newfound self. I thought much on my time with the Beast. It was a logic puzzle that pleased me greatly: The banishing of the Beast. There are no Beasts in the Wasteland. There are only dry sands, dead sage, and doomed souls In the Wasteland. I wandered the Wasteland for many years Finding bones of many man-like Beasts. Each told a little more of my doom. It was a doom of thought—linear thought— Thought on vanquishing Beasts. The Wasteland is littered with the bones Of Beast-slayers—logical thinkers all! There are no Beasts in the Wasteland. But in time there was good company. I spoke with many souls Many souls of great philosophers I held discourse with Plato, Aristotle, Socrates! I spoke with Descartes, Parmenides, St. Augustine! I learned from Hobbes and Hume! I debated Thoreau, Locke, Pope, and Emerson! I learned how the each slew fearsome Beasts set to consume them. Still I thirsted and I starved, For there are no Beasts in the Wasteland. One night I lay starving, Dying of want, A thousand Beast-slayers beside me. I dreamed again of the Beast —Always of the Beast— I dreamed of how I defeated it. I realized a longing A deep long-lost longing I awoke to a purring friend A friend possessed of tan fur And kneading claws. Suddenly— The Wasteland became a verdant land, A land of color and life. Green fields unfurled in verdant waves Spilling across a land of dry sand. Green sage bloomed and a gentle breeze blew My joy knew no bounds. It was then that the hair of my Beast Stood on end and he fled into the night. III—The Serpent A roar pierced the night— A slithering, hissing, vile roar. And with it came the Serpent! It slithered across the verdant green of the world A stance of pride encompassed it. A brown slimy trail followed close behind. The green land of my mind Cold not tolerate its passing. The Serpent rose up into the sky Its form blotting out the sun. Tiny scales fell from its body Like jeweled snow-flakes They fell to the earth There to rest upon dying soil. Each scale seemed encrusted in sin: Sins of man, Sins of our fathers, Sins of moments lost, Sins of our being, Sins of maternity not given, Sins of vanity, desire, pride, wrath, envy, gluttony, and sloth. Sin was inscribed upon the tip of its tail. Sins hissed from its forked tongue. The Serpent was a nightmare, A dream gone horribly wrong A sublime thought Feeding on the nectar of fear It hissed, It spit venom, It struck! The battle began. Logic dictated the Beast was right I ran—fled into the night. How could a mere man— A mortal such as I— Without my Beast fight. The Serpent: Flicked his black tongue, Tasted the air, Drank in my flesh, Inhaled my desperation. An ecstatic affair! Clearly a glutton of despair! Such became my days and nights: Running, hiding, fearing, fighting The wrath welling up within me. It didn’t seem to matter. I tried them all, one by one, Carefully cultivated each emotion, Every sin, all known virtues, With scientific precision. All were used to no avail. The Serpent would not relent! At long last: Bereft of reason, The Beast beaten, I lay down to give into My sin. The Serpent: Flicked his black tongue, Tasted the air, Drank in my flesh, Inhaled my desperation. A bacchanalian affair! Clearly it was drunk with despair! It thrashed over, Wrapped its coils about me Like a devious lover Coaxing some dark secret. I had thought it over, Thought to surrender my hubris and pride, But it seems perhaps Those were not mine to give, At least not to this creature of need. No, it wanted— Despair. The Beast steeled at the thought! The great Serpent flinched Then recoiled as if spying a kindred soul— For the first time. There could be no running, no fighting, No fleeing the Serpent. The Serpent was mine And I was his. IV—The Man I have been many things in my life: An animal, A scholar, A pious sinner. I had thought that I was not I had thought that I was separate, different In the end: I am the Beast, I am the Wasteland, I am the Serpent, I am Man!

Lots of fun. I liked the way dance played out through the poem. It continually shifts in meaning while staying close to a common nature just off screen.

A seemingly silly and saccharine poem until you reach the twist at the end. Still it was fun to play with sound. (Yes, I know most of this doesn't actually rhyme but it's pleasing to the ear anway.) Old Tin Roof A pitter-patter of raindrops splatter Like little feet of children playing; Dancing on an old tin roof. A crackling-popping of a wood-fire rocking Before rosy cheeks brightly smiling To the dancing on an old tin roof. A prattle-rattle of voices chatter: A family together rejoicing Under the dancing on an old tin roof. A creaking-squeaking of old boards peeking At love without any dressing gently caressing under the dancing on an old tin roof. A smiling-whiling of thoughts colliding with memories that are illusions; Delusions of life beneath the dancing on an old tin roof.

*Yog feels da con ... congrat ... da ... da ... da acclaim!* "Yeah, dats it! Yog feel da acclaim. Yog not feel urge to smash. Yog feel all warm and fuzzy. Yog not like dat. Yog smash!" This interlude brought to you by the makers of Almost Draconic Brand Candies. If you don't want to be run over by a big oafish troll waving about a club too big for seven above average dwarves then buy Almost Draconic Brand Candies! Almost Draconic Brand Candies: fit for any troll! Try Almost Draconic Brand Candies today. Available in any Almost Draconic Brand stores nationwide. Opening Tuesday. Note: Results may vary. Not recommended for use on all trolls. Children do not try this without parental consent. Some assembly required.

LoL, I thought with the finished product it was obvious I decided to steer away from a strong alliterative stance. Clearly I was wrong. As for an old english kenning, I never even thought of this poem going in that direction. I didn't split each line into two half lines, didn't alliterate the first stressed word of each half-line, didn't include a minimum of three alliterative words in each line with a maximum of four stressed alliterative words per line, I didn't follow any of the old english examples of alliteration. Never wanted to. I won't even go into why I ignored the old english rules about why specific consonant phonemes don't count as alliteration and why others do. Nor was this poem ever meant to be a spoken epic resounding in nobly sounding ancient consonants. Perhaps I should go take another look at Beowulf in it's original and Tolkien's groundbreaking essay on it and see if I can glean some more details from them. They were quite interesting reads. In the end heavy, alliteration would detract from what was important to this poem. I can't think of a good reason for doing that for the sake of alliteration.

I have mixed feelings about that response. As a poet I'm glad I wrote something that another person can connect with. As a person I'm sorry that you connected with it on such an intimate level.

Thank you very much. Also thanks for your's and Scatterbrain's help with it. I rather like the way it turned out as well.

Made some edits and added a title. I'm pretty happy with it now. Flutter A single feather flutters in the wind, Tossed carelessly on a callous breeze. Soft gray down untouched, It’s base—alabaster white—unseen, The core: hollow, empty, unfulfilled … Thrust where the currents may take him. One feather: lost, alone.

A tiny seed takes hold— Delicate in its evil. A sweet voice whispers, "Oh baby, don't fight it." My eyes grow heavy, My bones grow weary, My mind succumbs to a trecherous— ᅟ ᅟ sleep. In the mists of night Black roots dig deep. The honeyed voice triumphs, "Oh sweetie, you can't win!" My limbs become lead, My breathing labored, My mind swims in dark foreboding— ᅟ ᅟ depression. Constrained in vile chains Of self loathing and hate: The sirene-imp coos, "Your life is mine evermore." My mind slips away, My body decays, And all that once was is now— ᅟ ᅟ dead.

I think this is an example of one of your essay-poems that works, and works very well. It may take 2-3 readings to get the jist of it all but there's nothing wrong with a poem requiring multiple reads. The reply at the end adds a bit of humor to the piece as well: good for a quiet chuckle. I like it, nicely done.

Mmmmmm, Yog like cake. Yog like Ozy ... Ozyman ... Da king 'O kings guy. I will wuv him and pet him and I will name him George.

Happy birthday to the Pen! You smell like a fen We don't know where you've been But we love you like sin! Happy birthday to the Pen! Clearly my finest poem to date! *nods to himself wike da troll he is*

In the Prometheus myth, Prometheus gives fire to man and is afterwards punished by the gods. His punishment is comprised of him being chained to a mountain where everyday three harpies come, tear out his liver, and devour it. Most interpretations of the Prometheus myth have him giving man the gift of fire out of compassion for man's plight. Various interpretations also see the gift of fire as being symbolic of a gift of knowledge in general. The gods fear man posessing knowledge as one day the knowledge may lead man to surpassing the gods. Perhaps this somewhat hasty and vague summation helps connect the gaps? One of the things that draws me to this poem is the many and varied interpretations that are allowed of it. Each subtle reinterpretation of the Prometheus myth allows a reinterpretation of the poem. I find these kinds of intellectual poems fascinating and fun.

Also marking this section for deletion from final story *LANGUAGE WARNING FOR THIS SECTION* This first paragraph, should I decide to use it, will come just before the previous post. The rest will probably run concurrently. A light rain was falling. It was the kind of rain that ordinarily, on a summer day, would be pleasing and cool to the touch. This was not a hot summer day. This was a cold, blustery, winter day. This was the kind of day when the rain droplets against your skin feel like freezing needles stabbing down to bone. ... The thumping from the Lexus gradually moved up the street: each jarring blast of bass shook and rattled what few windows were left on the street. Thump! Thump! Thump! Norman's teeth rattled in his jaw. Thump! Thump! Thump! His hands shook. Thump! Thump! Thump! He lost his grip on the edges of his overcoat. Thump! Thump! Thump! His coat opened up; the cold wind washed over him. Thump! Thump! Thump! The noise jarringly infuriated every brain cell he had left available to him. Splash! Shards of dirty freezing water mixed with tiny crystals of ice slammed into Norman. Before he could even think, the middle finger of his left hand rose prominently in the air and he yelled, "Mother-fucking, cock-sucking asshole!" Suddenly, in that moment, it seemed that all the world ceased movement and Norman's consciousness took a step outside his struggling brain for a brief moment of clarity. Unfortunately for Norman, it was one moment too late. What his consciousness saw was terrifying. It saw a man soaked in gray freezing water. It saw a face with dark sunken eyes suddenly forced open under furrowed brows. It saw a mouth wide open in an angry yell just under a nose flaring in a wide snarl. But what it saw that frightened it most was that single, angry, middle-finger thrust high in the air and it thought, "shit Norman, what have we done!"

I always like poetry that speaks of one thing in terms of another. The characterization of a persons potential as an eagle wallowing in a pig pen was very interesting and thought provoking. I definitely like the bones of this poem.

Marking section for deletion from the final story. As he stepped from the apartment, a chill gust of wind blew the edges of his worn gray overcoat like a shirll voice whistles through your ears. Norman wrapped the coat tight about him in an effort to ward off memories most pleasingly kept buried away from a warm beating heart. Why not forget? He no longer noticed the cracked mortar or broken bricks that lined his home. he didn't notice the litter in the streets. He definitely ignored the boarded windows and broken homes that composed his community. He knew better than to pay attention. So with his head down he walked to the bus stop. Norman walked past dirty children playing dejectedly on smal patches of grass amid patchwork fields of dirt, concrete, and asphalt. He tried to fixate on the tast at hand but the chill wind kept blowing unpleasant memories back to his mind. If anyone had known what was in his head then Norman's reaction to what came next would have been no surprise. A black Lexus, with equally black windows, of the newest model year, and sporting a freshly detailed exterior, came thumping down the street. It was the kind of care everyone in this kind of neighborhood pretended not to notice. It was the kind of car that personified greed, gluttony, envy, murder, deception, and lost childhoods. The kind of car that raged against everything sucking it into the black interior before destroying it utterly. It was the kind of car Norman should have paid better attention to, but he was far too obsessed with fighting the pounding memories in his brain.

Definitely one of my favorite authors and hugely inspirational to the genre of fantasy. His profession as linguist shines through in the language of the characters. Rarely have I seen such nobility of language repeated in any genre. The shift in diction of Aragorn from "The Fellowship of the Ring" to "The Return of the King" was amazingly well thought out and executed. His initial presentation of Aragorn as a rustic and rural ranger destined for greatness if he but adheres to his duty shifts slowly and inexoribly to the good and noble ruler of the reunited kingoms of Arnor and Gondor. Yeah, I love the trilogy. :-)

I sent these comments to Orlan via messenger and I believe he intoned that I should post them here. If I was mistaken I apologize. Mostly I focused on detail work. By no means am I suggesting that all of these have to or even should be implemented. They exist merely to provide direction should Orlan wish to take another look at editing the piece. Paragraph 1) Good opening. You start with action and it grabs the reader's attention. Always a good thing. Paragraph 3) At the end of the paragraph you mention that Navien can make out "the outline of someone". This is a good place to give the reader some tantalizing clue. Describe the outline in some way. It doesn't have to be a long description. Here are a few things to think about in that regard: was it a lean sillhouette? Was it a flitting shadow among the trees? Does the outline belong to a physically powerful person? Does it perhaps hate the sun? Just a few thoughts to get the creative juices flowing. Paragraph 6) Here is where Navien throws the daggers at the target. This is an important moment. The story up until this point has built up for this moment. I would like to see it dragged out a little longer. How do the daggers tumble through the air? What do they look like? Are they ornate and richly decorated or plain and well-crafted? Are they magical? How does Navien feel about the loss of his daggers? A lot can be said about Naiven through the daggers. I.e. if they are inlaid with gold and intricately carved it shows that he has great wealth and a flare for the dramatic. If they are simple but of excellent balance and lacking any rust it shows him to be a man who is all business. Paragraph 7) Is his bandoleer full of daggers or does he only carry 4-6? Paragraph 5: You wrote, "...things would go sour fast." The use of would implies that things will difinitively go sour fast. At least in this piece you give no clarification as to why this is true. Something to keep in mind as you finish the story. Queen Dayane: I don't know if you wrote of the background insurrection that led to her being queen in a previous story or if that is a chapter you wish to reveal later in this one but getting a little background here for new readers would be nice. Part 2, Paragraph 3: You wrote, "Her marelous staff, topped with a golden serpent, was perched against the chair, not rolling away like it should but remaining perfectly still." This was an excellent way of both describing the ease and power of Mellara's magic as well as give a wonderful description of magic. Nicely done. Part 2, Paragraph 7: You wrote, "Dayane noticed that all the Royal Guard seemed to stand at the ready at all times." This would be a nice place to interject an emotional response from Dayane. How does she feel about this? Is she pleased, flattered, amused etc.? There seems to be a certain side of her that rejects the stuffy formality of being queen. Part 2, Paragraoh 11: "...he said and offered her a quick wink." Nice touch that gives a good insight into his personality. Part 2, paragraph 14: "Anywhere that Dayane made eye contact the individual would give her a bow and teh queen would acknowledge them with a nod of her head." Even if she does find this behavior tedious her response of a nod implies that she cares about the people that serve her. A mean or callous ruler would only respond if no bow was given. Again, this provides some good insight into personality. Part 2, Paragragh 15: Nice scene with the child to get some insights into Dayane's personality. Her irreverence for formality shows through in the wink. Part 2, Paragraph 16: Excellent foreshadowing of dark times and that soon the queen's boredom will come to an end. Part 2, Paragraph 28: Where is/What is Faowind? Was this revealed in another story or is this information to come later? Some clue for new readers would be nice though perhaps difficult to work in... Part 2, Paragraph 35: Al fortells of a female assassin then in the beginning of part three Dayane expresses shock that the assassin was female. Perhaps her shock should come earlier with Al's prophecy. Part2, Paragraph 41: '"Lets go meet my would be murderer then," Dayane said.' Was this spoken with bile/contempt/venom/fear/anger etc.? Nice depections of the elf in part three. I like the descriptions of the language in particular. Overall nicely done, and I hope I have some more free time on my hands when the next installment comes out. :-)

I'll be out of town until next monday. I hope everyone has a wonderful christmas and I'll see you on the flip side. Take care

"Yog want candy-clubs!" A tall elf of diminutive stature only when next to the troll appears from the empty space behind Yog. "Pardon the big fella if you would Wyvern sir. What he really meant to say was, Thank you for your kind comments. I would be most appreciative of some your special holiday Yog-sized candy clubs." Yog raised a single eyebrow before both his eyes narrowed into slits upon hearing the elf speak. The elf, for his part, anticipated what was to come and ducked one massive troll backhand. "Yog not care what stoopid elfie say. Yog want candy!" "Ummm, yes. Mr. Wyvern would you be so kind as to oblige the big fella before we all regret it? Pretty please ... With sugar on top."

Thanks for the comments. And yes I do plan to get things underway rather quickly. Either during the phone call or very shortly thereafter. I have been in a poetry mood the last week or so but should be back to prose either this or next week. I can't leave the story alone too long or my mental trail to it will grow cold. heehee

Elegy of Elegance A man—more machine than man in thought and deed—thunders thorugh a town dressed in the dour garb of death then destruction. The songs of the seven sisters of sin echo an elegy of elegance. War-weary weapons protect the priests of piety as sermons preached form the pulpit dictate malign morality. A sure sin places mourning mothers prostrate before the Papacy mewling echoes of an elegy of elegance. A farmer in fallow fields terrorizes the topsoil until it flees to the sea. Flowing through polluted streams it increases in potency while poisoning salmon school wailing an echo of an elegy of elegance. Poor peasants plow a life of lewd luxury for the rich who wail of woeful profits. Of late power flows to the righteous right who systematically enslave samaritans and joyfully celebrate the echoes of the elegy of elegance. Initially I was just playing around with dark timeless political concepts. As the poem progressed I developed an intricate alliteration scheme to go with the poem. I suppose if someone is really feeling froggy about trying it the rules would be as follows: 1) Each stanza should have seven lines 2) Each line should contain alliteration 3) Each line should contain cross allteration with either the line preceeding it or following it 4) At the end of the line there is a fixed alliteration scheme that is similar to a rhyme scheme of ABABCCD 5) The last line should be a summation line for the poem and should contain either heavy assonance or alliteration and preferrably both I'm not even sure how I managed all that and kept it from sounding childish. It was just one of those things that happened. heehee (note: edited to correct two typos)

I'm not sure if this has been mentioned yet but there is one series of novels that kind of fly under the radar screen a bit. I loved them for the way they creatively dealt with the future earth as a magical place genre that was so popular back in the 80's. Even Terry Brooks did a bit of this with his Shanarra series. The series I am speaking of is the Broken Lands Saga by Fred Saberhagen. Saberhagen Fantasy If you like the dark fantasy and a spin from the normal Good Vs Evil then The Elric Saga by Michael Moorcock is good twist. They read exceptionally fast. I think the longest was maybe 300 pages. But the best of Michael Moorcock to me were the Chronicles of Corum.

I quite liked the repetition of, "as the snow keeps falling". It was a nice way of returning the reader to the matter at and. I must admit that I almost got a Thomas Beckett feel from this—the endless cycle of snow that never seems to go—except you include an element of nostalgia for the snow that is almost warm among the frigid snow. The line in the last stanza, "So sorry, not in Canada" provides a nice bit of humor at the end that adds some warmth to the poem as a whole. It grew on me a bit on the second and subsequent reads. I did have one question. The reisling you mention in the next to last line. Are you referencing riesling wine? A connoisseur of wines, I am not. http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif

Interesting, it took me a minute to catch on to the subject but after I did everything fell into place quite nicely. I think stanza three was the strongerst. It contained some really nice imagery and word usage and delivered a nice punch. "tears...pitch...rain...staggers...tar-bits..." All proved evocative and nicely placed. The burning skies of stanza four speak well of a smog-filled sunset. The armageddon feel resonate with modern ecological and global-warming concerns. Very interesting...