Da_Yog

As always, your imagery is your strong suit. Well done. And bravo on correct usage of sublime. I also liked the internal rhyme in the next to last line, it definitely provided a feel for an imenint climax and poetic end.

I oft find it interesting how "The Raven" lends mesmeric musing to poetry long after an initial reading or even re-reading. It's like some haunting melody in the back of your head that stirs the dead to life once more. Such power, such eternal power!

Character Portrait: Norman Normal Exercise: Monologue *Again language warning* Look nigger, my name is Norman Normal. I know what you are thinking. What kind of mother names her son, Norman Normal? Well, my mother died when in child birth so my prick of a useless father did the naming. Deal with it, bitch-ass. The drunken bastard had a thing for alliteration even though his dumb nigger punk-ass didn't know the word for it. He always called it, "'lit'ration" whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Along with the fucked up name he also gave me his genetic predisposition for alcoholism. Oh that first time was magical! Much better than my other first time when some teen-aged bitch yelled rape because she changed her mind half way into it. No, this was like an all-nighter of hellish sex in the Seven Mounting Heavens of Celestia. Then, the morning after, just hell! Been chasing Heaven ever since. Been finding nothing but demons. Their smiling, leering, jeering, faces lruking at the bottom of every bottle. Still, in ever glass, every bottle, every pint, lurks the potential of heavenly bliss—that's what the demons say. Eventually I gave up on Heaven—mostly—the demons are pursuasive. Instead, I drink to forget: forget the demons, forget heaven, forget the ex-wife, forget the lousy job, forget this God-damned fucking evil wallpaper, and mostly to forget about my fucking shitty life! My boss is a prick—a good guy—but a prick. He's always got these "special" little projects for me to do—these annoying little projects—but at least he gives me hours. On occasion, when I'm low on cash—struggling to make bills—he gives me some overtime breadcrumbs. I just wish his honkey-prick ass would stop saying dude all the time. It's like he's some stupid punk-ass skater-dude from the 70's who never grew up. Jesus fucking Christ, I hate that!

Ah, thank you kindly. There's a gap I noticed between part three and part four that I will have to go back and fix one day; however, right now I'm too tired of looking at the form to take care of it so it will just have to wait. http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif I also definitely want to tighten up the wording a bit more. There's still some fluff I think in there but that too will have to wait.

I must say I rather liked the flow and rhythm of the poem. It "moved" quite well. The romantic nature does seem to hearken back to an older time but also seemed very appropriate. Overall, I quite liked the outpouring of raw emotion. That is something that often gets lost or watered down in the modern world. Nicely done.

Recently I was reading up on some of the ancient forms of celtic poetry and wondered how this poem, with its strong Celtic roots, would look in a traditional Celtic format. I admit I settled on the Ae Freslighe because it was one of the least difficult forms to immitate. That being said, it was not an easy form. The rules of the Ae Freslighe are as follows: Ae freslighe: (ay fresh lee): Each stanza is a quatrain of seven syllables. Lines one and three rhyme with a triple (three syllable) rhyme and two and four use a double (two syllable) rhyme. As was stated earlier. the poem should end with the first syllable word or the complete line that it began with. x x x x (x x a) x x x x x (x b ) x x x x (x x a) x x x x x (x b ) Source:Celtic Poetry I freely admit that I wasn't able to maintain the required rhyme scheme in its pure intended form. However I do feel it gets some of that old Celtic poetic feel. At any rate I feel there is much work to be done in word selection but I present this as it is somewhat complete and honestly I've been working on it all week and I'm tired of looking at it. At some point in the future I'll come back to it and do some more tweaking. As always comments are welcome—especially if you can help me out with a bit of assonance or alliteration in a line that is bereft of it. Also, many thanks to Silver Wind for allowing me the opportunity to rewrite this poem. The Merrow’s Game I Bravely went they journeying. Keeping on the left, Ireland, Sea all about afrothing, All eyes fixed on their island. Thoughts sweetly on Tir-na-nOg, Daughter's hand gripped in Mother's. Brows in the wind afurrowed, Cloaks wrapped to keep them warmer. II A mist rolled in eerily. Mother smiled to her daughter, Arms wrapped around her warily, As sea-fae sang in water. "Come to the sea, lil darling," Child's eyes widened on hearing. "Come be with me, lil starling," Her eyes to mom were peering. Mother heard wind whistling, Saw the sea gently swelling, Felt the sea-spray caressing, And mired in the mists lulling. Sung the voice of enchantment, "Come to our sea of playing," As fey forms made merriment, "Come sing to faeries swaying." Small hands tugged mom's heavily, "Look! Do you see that dancing?" Mom's eyes shifted wearily, "Yes, I see the foam prancing." Mother heard wind whistling, Saw the sea gently swelling, Felt the sea-spray caressing, And mired in the mists lulling. Little dress spun suddenly When a deck-tune came tapping Eyes looked about warily Louder grew the Fae drumming. Small hands tugged down pensively "Do you hear the sweet drumming?" Mom squeezed cold hand tenderly. "Yes, I hear the deck thumping." Mother heard wind whistling, Saw the sea gently swelling, Felt the sea-spray caressing, And mired in the mists lulling. “Let us go play, lil darling. Oh, there's no need for treaty. Just for a while, lil starling. She won't miss you sweetie.” Small hands in cold residing, One step and they left smiling, Small feet on deck colliding, Ever on the sea wiling. With the chill mist receding: Mother felt small hand missing, Heard tapping steps retreating, Felt sea-salt on face pressing. III Broken was the enchantment. Mother searched for her darling. Tears poured out an indictment As she stood on the carling. She ran on the caravel From one end to the other, Dress wide like a jezebel, Calling out for her daughter. Mother heard sails billowing, Felt wind’s softening spirit, Saw the Gael-sea mellowing, As she stood on the bowsprit. IV Each year on the annual, On her ship, she went sailing, The Gael-sea flowed temporal, Ever to daughter wailing. "I'll find you, my lil darling," Mother cried to waves roiling, "I love you, sweet lil starling," She called over foam toiling. Mother heard sails billowing, Felt wind’s softening spirit, Saw the Gael-sea mellowing, As she stood on the bowsprit. As her final testament, With her hair gently graying, Once more she gave sacrament. One more time, she went sailing. Dying thoughts on Tir-na-nOg, Right hand gripped daughter’s phantom In the wind, brows afurrowed. Foamy splashes seemed random. She saw the mist enchanting, Heard the Gael-sea sing sweetly, Saw fae-forms slow advancing, And sun glint off waves brightly. “Sweet mother, come adancing,” Sung the beautiful marrow. “With us, ever aprancing, And never need a barrow.” Mother’s eyes swam tearily As she heard long-lost voices, “Don’t cling to life drearily, Don’t make droll weary choices.” She saw the mist enchanting, Heard the Gael-sea sing sweetly, Saw fae-forms slow advancing, And sun glint off waves brightly. V Air stilled in the commotion. Her calming face glowed stately. A choice made on emotion— She dove in the sea bravely…

Another surreal one eh? I'll have to look it over this weekend. That being said I do believe you meant "rhythmic" instead of "rhythmatic" in the second stanza, no?

I enjoyed this. The rhyme wasn't overpowering but was there enough to be enjoyed. The imagery was quite nice: dark, sad, radiant, alone, and perhaps somewhat aloof. It was an interesting and new look at the moon.

It was a short fiber carpet, burgundy in color and well worn from years of use. There was a dark stain near the nightstand that the phone rested on. It was a stain that spoke of lifestyle. At one time it had been a pile of bile and alcohol mixed in dubious proportions with a little food. Mr. Normal couldn’t remember what he had to eat that night. He couldn’t remember who he had been out with. He couldn’t remember what he did after he got to the club. He did remember that he was particularly proud of himself for managing to puke on the floor and not his bed. But that happened years ago. Now, he drank much more heavily and ate less. When he finally woke up the next morning he was greeted with the most obnoxious smell imaginable. Perhaps not so strangely, it smelled of bile, lots of alcohol, and something else he couldn’t identify. He fought with his stomach trying to keep from vomiting again. The brain cells that he still had working that morning told him that this was a loosing battle and he better do something quick. Unfortunately his body wasn’t cooperating as he struggled to flop around on the bed like a fish struggling to get back in the water. Just as the pain in his abdomen became unbearable he managed to half crawl out of bed, though a pile of something sticky, and get his head over the waste-basket he kept on the other side of the nightstand. This particular spot, more than any other, was the place in his house he came to think of as home. He stayed there several minutes; mouth positioned over the waste basket, his head crushing against a particularly angry purple snapdragon, his body heaving for all it was worth, and a long strand of saliva trailing down from his mouth to the black abyss of the waste basket.

*WARNING* Some of the material in this will feature some very graphic language. Think "Pulp Fiction" and you'll have a good idea. If that kind of thing offends you then please read no further. To the rest this should be quite humorous and satirical. My main problem is I have some ideas going but haven't developed much of the plot. I have a good idea of the voice I want to write it in, a time frame (modern, possibly with some fantasy elements), and a good idea of one or two of the main characters. The writings will appear scattered and incomplete at first until I get some ideas going and then I'll start compiling the sections I wish to use in the fial story and hopefully it should come together. Some of the postings will just be writing exercises to get ideas out. What I have so far is as follows: “Wha-cha! ga-cha bitch-ass!” This strange utterance was spoken by an equally strange man in an equally strange situation. … It all started two days earlier in the home of a normal man, on a normal Saturday, trying to sleep away his normal life. He was lying with the right side of his face firmly planted in a not-so-soft pillow, on a mattress that should have been replaced a decade ago. His legs were spread in a V and half his body was covered in a once-upon-a-time white sheet when the phone rang. It was an old phone. It was a phone that probably should have been thrown away in the 80s but somehow tragically wasn’t and now it was ringing somewhere in the year 2007. It was the kind of ring that was only a ring if you had lived with this particular phone for twenty-seven years too long. To anyone else it sounded more like a gurgling cry for help from a long-forgotten electronic device, but to Mr. Normal it was a phone ring. The phone gurgled a second time. This time the black plastic cord connecting the receiver to the base vibrated a bit. It was the kind of vibration that seemed to cause the cord to twist upon itself until it wasn’t possible to pick up the receiver without picking up the phone with it. At least that’s what Mr. Normal always blamed it on. Yes, it was definitely the vibration. Merely walking around with the receiver in your hand, pacing back and forth while talking on the phone, and twisting this way and that would never cause a phone cord to become a tangled mess. No, this was clearly either the work of gremlins or the accursed vibration. Again the phone rang. This time the left eye of Mr. Normal opened revealing a cris-cross of red arteries snaking around the white of his eye. When the light bathing into the room struck his now-opened eye, the eyelid shut of its own accord and he let out a gurgling-grimace of his own. It was a gurgle that blended well with the phone ringing for a fourth time. He pushed down with his hands, rose up slightly, and rotated his head to the right before his strength gave out and he dropped back into the somewhat inviting and not-so-soft pillow. His right eye strained to open revealing its own red-artery roadmap. His pupil began to contract as the phone rang a fifth time. He could just make out the dread vibration in the black cord as it rattled against the wallpaper his ex-wife had him put up eight years ago—just before she left him. It was the kind of wallpaper that says, “Honey,” or more likely, “Jackass, I’m leaving you.” It said this like only a Snapdragon print from a magnificently depressed, attention-starved, passive-aggressive, woman trapped in a colossal screw-up of a relationship could. It was a Snapdragon print in the bedroom of a man who loved nothing quite so much as beer, sleeping, and Sunday afternoon football. It was a print that screamed for attention. All it got was screaming. Mr. Normal began to wonder as he looked at a particularly vicious yellow snapdragon that seemed to be staring back at him. He wondered if perhaps he could have handled that last relationship a bit better. He wondered if he really was from Mars. Mostly he wondered why this damn phone wouldn’t stop screaming at him. On cue it gurgled for a sixth time and the cord seemed to twist ever so slightly in its peculiar gremlin-induced manner. Finding his left hand trapped beneath his body he used it to push up and reached for the phone receiver with his right hand. Just as the index finger of his right hand tickled the receiver his left arm gave out. The downward momentum combined with the pivot motion of his left arm caused his head to crash into the headboard. At the same time his right index finger flipped the phone off the receiver leaving it dangling in a corded heap just at the edge of his nightstand. He screamed, “Fuck!” Then when the sound of his own over-loud voice slammed into his ears he screamed again, this time not nearly so loud, “Jesus fuck, I hate me.” His left hand found the top of his head as he involuntarily sat up in bed as his right hand tried to cover both ears but only succeeded in covering his right. Strange how pain can sometimes give a man strength he didn’t know he had. From the end of the dangling receiver he heard a voice. It was a man’s voice. A man he knew he would have recognized if circumstances had been different. “Dude. Dude, are you there?” All Mr. Normal could do was to nod at the phone and groan out an, “unnnnh”. Again from the phone, this time a bit more insistent, “Dude, is that you?” Mr. Normal planted his feet firmly on the carpet and crinkled up his toes. He was greeted by the feeling of grit upon the underside of his toes and feet. The carpet was a short-fiber burgundy carpet and was well-worn from years of use. There was a dark stain near the nightstand that the phone rested on. It was a stain that really show-cased the man who made it, cared for it, and nurtured it all these years. “Dude?” He pushed himself up, reached out and slammed the curtains together blocking out that accursed light. “Dude, quit fucking around and answer the damn phone!” Mr. Normal’s bloodshot eyes rolled up into his head before coming to rest on the black receiver. He scowled at the accursed device. It was a scowl that only he could muster. A scowl directed at the man on the other end. With one motion, one mean-spirited motion, he snatched up the receiver with his left hand and managed to bitch into the phone, “WHAT?” That was all he managed to utter before the tangled mass of cord yanked the base of the phone off the nightstand. The base, finding itself suddenly free of the support of the nightstand, began to apply weight on the cord that the tangled mass could not support. With premeditated gremlin-like precision the cord began to unravel itself as the base traveled at an alarming rate towards Mr. Normal’s bare left foot. Mr. Normal in his barely awake, bloodshot, and head-banged state barely had time to register what was about to happen before the base unceremoniously dumped itself onto the top of the big toe on his exposed left foot. The cord vibrated its approval as the base of the phone made a little gurgling-ding sound. This time his utterance came at maximum volume and with maximum bellicosity, “FUCK!” He was rewarded with a searing pain that seemed to shoot from one ear to the other and then back into the middle of his brain somewhere. Once there it seemed to curl up, get comfortable, and throw a party with the pain in his foot. Oh yes, this was brewing up to be just a wonderful day. “Dude, chill out.”

Interesting structure. Is this one of your own devising or is this an established form? I do like the way the first line of each stanza becomes a line in the last stanza...except the last line of the last stanza is also the last line in the next to last stanza. I rather liked the content as well. At least to me it speaks of depression, with the bird living in a cage of her own manufacture. I liked how the tears of confinement become the tears of freedom at the end—nice touch. The imagery resonated well for me. The rain, the tears, the cage, the night sky, and dancing all work well in the motif. I think overall I rather like this one. Nicely done.

I was looking for punctuation in a couple of places as well: 1) In the first stanza it seemed that there needed to be a question mark after either the second or third line. I wasn't sure if you meant "...how do we define it? / with words or phrase" This would imply a question with the answer provided by the author. Or did you mean, "but how do we define it / with words or phrase?" This would leave it completely up to the reader to define it. Just not quite sure which way you meant for us to read it. 2) In stanza five you give two options and it took me a second to figure that out as I had to go back and reread it. If you end the first line with a colon and a comma at the end of line two I think that would clear up the ambiguity for me. Other than those two little things I thought it was rather nice. The question pose in the end, "or does everything / have a side in / shadow?" was excellent. The idea of beauty being masked in shadow, being shadow, or hiding shadow was a very interesting way to leave the reader.

I think the first stanza was the most intriguing. You did a good job of describing what is transpiring. Some of the other stanzas didn't quite feel in the same mode. Not sure if that was intentional or not. At any rate I think the last word in the first line of the last stanza should be "heart" unless I missed something...

*Oops I forgot* "Mmmmmmm, con...confec...candy-clubs good."

Just re-read "Beyond Einstein" by Michio Kaku. Nothing quite like theoretical physics to get your mind wandering. "Poet's Choice" by Edward Hirsch. Some good, some interesting, some bizzare, but all worth a read. I think for Christmas I am going to receive "Fifteen Poets of the Aztec World" by Miguel Leon-Portilla. This I'm looking forward to as it is supposed to supply two translations for each poem. One is purely phonetical and the other is literal.

A retouch of something I wrote a while ago. Only small changes, but I think I like it better now. The Lost Place Here I stand before these hallowed halls Where thoughts of time seem quaint. For eons have they stood amongst these hills And for eons unspoiled shall they remain. I cannot find upon this place of olde— To my sight or sense—the hand of man. For man could not love other than he For so long as it takes to make this place. I stand and gaze at what I have found And think to journey and explore Deep within the heart of these earthen halls. A step or two more and I could see Sights that no man ever has seen. Nay! I stay my feet and turn away. For I could not keep such a sight to mine eye alone And grand stories would inspire men To go looking where I dare not tread. Then another of the precious lost places would fall to the inquisition of man, And such a crime I could not bear.

*perspective shift* Something strange happened as the confection-club smacked the rather large and cumbersome example of trollness squarely in the forehead. He had a thought, mind you, not the typical base instinct response he was so fervently accustomed to, but a real, genuine, cognitive thought. It occurred to him as the club that smacked him so precisely in the forehead shattered into small crystalline pieces, that the clubs, were in fact, not real clubs at all. He lifted da club to his noggin' and scratched it with the marvelously menacing mithril spike. No something still wasn't quite right here. He'd have to think on that a bit later. Think about it like only an Olog could. But there was another matter to attend to just now. His left eye narrowed to a slit, his nostrils flared, his lips curled into a twisted snarl, and he knew what he had to do. Two whole thoughts in one day. This was indeed a first! He glanced about, and spying one of the clubs among the scattered debris lumbered over to it. Once there he raised his club and stuck down a sound blow upon the confection-club. It shattered. It shattered into a thousand tiny crystalline candy-fragments. No, he cleverly reasoned to himself, this was not a club. After scratching his noggin' wit da club for a moment or two longer, (Mind you, this was a troll moment, not a human one, but a short troll moment, so it only lasted ten minutes or so.) he arched his back and bellowed to the sky, "Wyvernsssss, why you make deese funny clubssss dat not really clubs?" On cue the strangely overgrown lizard appeared from behind a rather large rock, (you human-types would call it a boulder) brushed off some dirt, bits of broken candy, and some wood splinters, and cautiously approached the overgrown troll. "Well you ssssee Yog," said Wyvern, "Those aren't really clubs at all. They are candy. They just look like clubs." With that the strangely oversized lizard fished around for a club that had survived the onslaught mostly unscathed, brushed it off best he could, and offered it up to da troll. Yog's nose, shifted to the right on his head and his right eye closed. Slowly he reached out with his right hand to take the candy-club. Wyvern, for his part, took a few very calculated steps back. Yog's nostrils flared as he brought the candy near his mouth. "Smells like candy." His large, wet, scaly tongue snaked out to the candy and slowly licked it's surface. "Tastes like candy." Suddenly the light went on. By George, it was candy. It wasn't really a club at all. "Hey Wyverns, dis is candy!" Wyverns eyes rolled reflexively in his skull. "Yes Yog, they are candy-clubs." "Hey Wyverns, deese are great! You knows what yous should do?" Wyvern's left eyebrow raised quizzically. "What'ssss that Yog?" "Yous should open a stand and sell deese to people or sumtin." With that the big ole stupid troll wandered off, leaving Wyvern to the mess, that is inevitably left in the troll's wake.

Something about apocryphal literature that just makes me smile. I like it.

A scent of sweetness caught my nose as I strolled by the sign labeled, "The Pen Confection Tasting Convention." I raised my scaly nose to the air and sniffed, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air through each nostril then raised Da Club(Middle Earth patent pending) to my noggin' and scratched my head with the mithril spike at its end. As I pondered the strange scent, an old scale rubbed off under the assault of the spike and tumbled haphazardly to the ground. Suddenly, as if in a moment of sudden lu...lucid...clarity, yeah dats it clarity, I realized the scent of candy and began barreling towards the source like a starving bear smelling fresh carrion. I barely noticed the little lizard as I brushed past him, sending him spinning off to the side like a top wound too tight. It was then that I became confuse…again. Before me lay several strange clubs. This was clearly not the con…confec…candy I was looking for. I began sniffing the air again, my scaly nostrils flaring like coals being fanned by a hot bellows. “Yog smell candy!” I bellowed as I glared about the stand. My eyes narrowed into evil red slits as I spotted and suddenly took notice of the small, yet somehow overgrown lizard. “You try to trick Yog! Yog not like being tricked!” I yelled as I raised Da Club (Middle Earth patent pending). One black scale hung pre…precar…loosely from the tip of the mithril spike, adhered to its position by a mass of slowly con…congeal…drying blood. The thick scale bobbled up and down with each thunderous footstep as I closed in on the little yet somehow overgrown lizard. “Where candy, or Yog brain you!” I shouted at the top of my lungs when I was mere steps away…

First off, Let me say thanks for taking the time to read this piece and post your comments. I must admit that I focused heavily on the darker aspects of human nature. One of the hardest challenges of this piece was writing it so that I provided enough descriptive elements to satisfy the reader while not enough to clearly create a physical description. As far as the names go I tried to make them seem alien and familiar all at the same time. What I ended up doing—and I rather liked the effect—was to use anagrams. A brief list of them are as follows: Cincyal—cynical Stennica—ancients Vasomi's Kranserds—Asimov's Darkness Rekfona's Nuwn—Unknown Fears Cincyal becomes both the voice for his people and the hew and cry against them and is an extreme cynic at heart. (Perhaps I am reflected far too much in his voice. Although I don't think I'm quite that bad. http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif) Stennica has the calmer voice of the ancients. The Vasomi's Kranserds is a science vessel, a fitting tribute to Asimov, but takes on the darkest aspects of exploration. Rekfonna's Nuwn refuses to respond to the call for help because of a fear of the unknown. I'm glad this raised some interesting questions for you as that was the main impetus for the writing—to get the reader to question the nature of humanity and perhaps his/her own. Anyway, thanks again for the comments.

This also suggests to me corruption in the system or process. A divergence from its intended purpose, direction, or methodology. Honestly if I managed to get some good insight then it means you presented your imagery and poetic symbology in such a way and with enough skill as to allow me to do so. Which is sayin' sumtin. Cus I's just a big ol' troll...wit da club!

Implies loss and a certain disregard for it. The wearing of the mask seems to imply a different opinion than that which was outwardly expressed. Similar things can be said for the separation of judge and jury. Typically these days judge and jury are seen as one entity and representative of the court as a whole. Here different verdicts may be rendered depending on the observer. Surprise verdict. Oh the humanity. The reverse position of questions and answers indicates a searching for something that is desperately trying to remain hidden. A more clear indication of loss. It's personal and permanent. Suggestive of the loss of a son, daughter, mother, father, husband...(Although typically the use of maiden would exclude the son/daughter/husband options.) Suggestive of abortions and putting children up for adoption. The jester re-emerges here in the form of dancing children upon graves. This brings us back to the masks of stanza two and a suggestion of separate opinions depending on what is acceptable and what is felt. Interesting, the jester is still there but the masks are gone. And possibly back again. Silver and gold could be seen as something that obscures vision, something that distracts, something that keeps focus on something other than what's important. Possibly indicating that the jester can't reveal it's true nature. It's either not ready or society isn't ready. Perhaps both.

OK, I'm intrigued but no time to play tonight. I'll post some decronstructed impressions tomorrow.

Today, my boss—who is female—said, "When you go down, keep your back straight and bend at the knees."

That is techniqually not true. There were in fact both Germans and Italians who were intured, it is not as well known and it was not in as great of numbers, but it still did happen. I freely admit to quite a few technical inaccuracies. This was written from an extremist viewpoint and presents its argument in that manner. It was designed to shock, amuse, anger, and sadden all at the same time. I have to say that if you didn't get a moment of "pissed off" or righteous indignation while reading this then either I didn't do my job or I need to worry about you a little. http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif Basically take it with a grain of salt because it was written with one intentionally included, if for no other reason than to rub everyone the wrong way...at least a little. I actually did include a stanza that discussed Jim Crow laws. It didn't have the same feel as the rest of the piece and was more philosophic than historic oriented so I left it out.