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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
April 21, 2011
In Mural In The Glass by ~Moonbeams, you can "hear the rust whistle" and watch a mother's life pass by until the arrival of a longed-for gift: her daughter.
Featured by GwenavhyeurAnastasia
Literature Text
Fall once fell in colors here,
you could hear the rust whistle
on playgrounds,
merry go rounds
still spinning,
swings
still swinging.
Today
her reflection
is grey
the rain
a heavy patter, a baby's bare feet tapping--
mud tracks fading on the kitchen floor;
the door closing in its hinges.
her reflection
was once uncreased;
wide-eyed
among gnawed pencils--
an attention deficit.
Later, the folds of her lids sunk
deeper,
favored coal;
a mental bargain
as she lost herself
in the park, got lost at the ends of trails.
The glints in her pupils
became pilots
that stayed lit
somewhere in the forest.
She said they would someday raze her,
leave her grey;
part widening like continents,
like desert sands in the wind.
Behind the glass
they placed a fountain,
displaced flowers.
you could hear the rust whistle
on playgrounds,
merry go rounds
still spinning,
swings
still swinging.
Today
her reflection
is grey
the rain
a heavy patter, a baby's bare feet tapping--
mud tracks fading on the kitchen floor;
the door closing in its hinges.
her reflection
was once uncreased;
wide-eyed
among gnawed pencils--
an attention deficit.
Later, the folds of her lids sunk
deeper,
favored coal;
a mental bargain
as she lost herself
in the park, got lost at the ends of trails.
The glints in her pupils
became pilots
that stayed lit
somewhere in the forest.
She said they would someday raze her,
leave her grey;
part widening like continents,
like desert sands in the wind.
Behind the glass
they placed a fountain,
displaced flowers.
Literature
There's a House On the Moon
"There's a house on the moon." She said, staring upwards at the silver disk in the sky.
"Don't be silly, darling." Her mother scolded, shaking her head apologetically at the other parents.
She frowned and crossed her arms, her bottom lip sticking out and her big eyes narrowed. "But there is! And there's a river an' a field an' goats an' a cat, an' that's where Old Man Winter lives."
Her mother sighed impatiently. "Enough with these silly stories, Elisabeth. Go and play while I talk, alright? But no telling the other children of these ridiculous fantasies."
Pouting, she did as she was told, stomping her booted feet hard against the half
Literature
The Loss
I can't think I can't breathe I don't know where I'm going or where I've been or If I'm really here at all is this some sort of dream am I dead am I here does it even matter any more? I'm falling, falling, falling, falling I've hit rock bottom I've found a shovel I'm digging, I'm digging, I'm digging and I've hit gold and I've found riches but I don't need them there's no point in them so I'm still digging and I've hit oil and I'm covered in thick oil and it's dark and it disgusting and I can't breathe and I can't see and I can't do anything because I'm still digging and the oil is filling up my lungs and I can't breathe and I'm still digging
Literature
I'll not contain you
Your legs are quivering bells, my darling--
the bells of a church or the belly of a flower,
they laugh at the touch of my hard tongue,
but I'll not contain you.
I'll not contain you,
though I found you in the earth,
smelling of earth, and your hot
weary hands pushed themselves into mine,
I'll not contain you.
A thin film of years
will grow over your vivid knees
and my restless hands.
We will hunt our quick lives
like packs of silverfish,
and scoop them out of the water,
like river stones.
I will hold these stones in my hand,
still I will not contain you.
At home, the yellowing curtain
of sky sighs before giving itself
to d
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Still working on this one a bit.
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Comments36
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Overall Vision Originality
Technique ImpactWhen I was young, my reflection
was uncreased;
wide-eyed
among gnawed pencils and crumpled paper--
an attention deficit.
Is my favorite stanza of this mesmerizing and so touching poem. I got caught in it right on, and got pulled in more and more, couldn’t let go. This poem is just mesmerizing in its presence, concept and some beautifully luscious stanzas and imagery. I think that there are moments in this poem that you successfully captured such delicate moments with so elegant and natural ease, I really feel that you got gold here, silver maybe is more suitable a color though – shining gentle silver.
Two more parts that got me really hard on the heart are -
When I was young, my reflection
was uncreased;
wide-eyed
among gnawed pencils and crumpled paper--
an attention deficit.
And
My stare
traipsed trails deep in the park--
a moving portrait, glass mural.
The glints in my pupils
became pilots
lit
somewhere in the rising forest.
I was reading them with awe and tears of how beautiful they came out. I think that they emanate such a feel, such honesty and sincerity mixed in over the top imagery and metaphors. That only a matured and professional poet makes. Really. I feel as if you outdone yourself.
The last stanza ends perfectly, although I feel that the first few lines are pulling away of the magical realm of words you created before it. The ending though, the ending is just mesmerizing and gripping, done so… just… fitting.
True, this poem is not perfect. True, this poem needs some work on the in-between and the places were it is not as great as the others, it is flawed. The opening two stanzas, for an example, are just not as hard as could be, don't deliver enough or set the tone good enough, they are lacking although opening the issue up. So yes, this poem is not perfect. But it is also one of the best I read by you, one of the more touching things I read lately, and when it’ll be done, when it’s ready, it’ll be amazing. This is one of my fave, straight away.