So, I'm testing a theory. A teacher told me this was almost like poetry. I split up sentences and paragraphs into lines and stanzas. Now, could you read this as (good) poetry? Since a lot of the time that seems to be a major difference between poetry and prose. Also, it would mean that I could enter a certain competition twice, once with another piece of prose, and then with this masquerading as poetry... Hahahah. Indulge me.
The wind wafts, gentle,
Caressing,
but firmly chilling,
An unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures
of her uncaring nature.
She may,
briefly,
take a fondness to a thing, a being,
a place,
But she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.
She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are
as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her
effortlessly,
without the burden they bring humans.
Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her?
She holds no interest in these matters,
weaving throughout and about these,
Monumental occasions, with a laugh,
Light as the tinkling of bells,
Felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]
A thing of beauty, that sound, but
with a harsh edge, the cold
steel of a blade gleaming
as it is drawn from its sheath,
glinting/glimmering
with bloodlust.
She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror,
For, after all,
True beauty,
In all its unbridled intensity can only strike
Some nameless Fear into those, its beholders.
Lucky or luckless?
One is hard-pressed to say.
She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring
in brutal, reckless force
Across the oceans,
All untethered might, but despite this, there remains still
an undeniable femininity about her.
Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed
and slighted, bitter lovers,
may sullenly tell that she consummates that female trait,
that cruel, calculated manipulation,
bending others to her will on
nothing more than a whim.
Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive
no more
than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals,
meaningless.
She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the
rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash
clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights.
Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping
with the salt spray,
she has leant her voice to the sirens' song,
alluring, bewitching, deadly.
She has no need of humility, no need for pride.
She does not boast - jealousy is a concept
of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows
all that she is
and embraces it.
Nothing more is necessary.
She hurtles on, breathes through each new terrain in turn,
uncaringly, unceasingly.
For so has she, the night wind, done for all time,
and so she shall until its end.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Passage of the Night Wind... as Poetry o.O
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Not looking forward to this, really.
Today, once I have hopefully survived and waded through the deluge of homework I find myself facing, I aim to take on "Faded Paint and Butterfly Wings" once more, armed to the teeth with all your helpful advice and critique. Thank you very much and I hope to put a revision version up once that is done. Feel free to help out some more now, and then as well, even if just with Title ideas, etc. I can't do this without you!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Passage of the Night Wind
This is a short piece, only about 385 words, in contrast with anything else I have written in a long time. This is the 2.5th draft [yes >.<] and while I very much like some of it, it did stem from another piece I began to write and so in making it it's own, it seems a little disjointed to me, particularly at the beginning and at various points throughout. So, suggestions? Also take note I wrote this in the night hours, so it could easily be terrible. Feel free to tell me, anonymously if you so will.
27/07/09 - an edited version, turned into poetry, (not the poem version later posted on this blog) of this has just been shortlisted finalist in the Adelaide Young Writers Awards. I'm very happy with that. :)
The wind wafts, gentle, caressing, but firmly chilling, an unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures of her uncaring nature. She may, briefly, take a fondness to a thing, a being, a place,but she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.
She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her effortlessly, without the burden they bring humans. Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her? She holds no interest in these matters, weaving throughout and about monumental occasions with a laugh, light as the tinkling of bells, felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]
A thing of beauty, that sound, but with a harsh edge, the cold steel of a blade gleaming as it is drawn from its sheath, glinting/glimmering with bloodlust. She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror, for, after all, true beauty in all its unbridled intensity can only strike some nameless fear into those, its beholders. Lucky or luckless? One is hard-pressed to say.
She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring in brutal, reckless force across the oceans, all untethered might, but despite this, there remains still an undeniable femininity about her. Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed and slighted, bitter lovers, may sullenly tell that she consumates that female trait of cruel, calculated manipulation, bending others to her will on nothing more than a whim. Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive no more than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals, meaningless.
She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights. Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping with the salt spray, she has leant her voice to the sirens' song, alluring, bewitching, deadly.
She has no need of humility, no need for pride. She does not boast - jealousy is a concept of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows all that she is and embraces it. Nothing more is necessary.
She hurtles on and breathes through each new terrain in turn, uncaringly, unceasingly. For so has she, the night wind, done for all time, and so she shall until its end.
Friday, May 8, 2009
"Without you all [it's] going to be is... Incomplete"
This isn't complete, as, you know, you may have realised from the title. Not that I actually like the Backstreet Boys or anything... >.< While I've had positive feedback for it, I'm not sure that I like it or that it is emotive enough. So, what are your thoughts? Should I continue it or can it?
It was only the strength of her fear that kept her rage from lashing out. Control was the thin membrane she wrapped around her, for if she lost that, only worse could follow, and angry as she now was, she knew that it would pass. She just had to keep still, draw the least attention possible. Maybe he would forget about her. She couldn’t have been drawn more tightly into herself, her arms wrapped so closely about her body and for so long that she was one mass of pins of needles, but her control held her in place, even as her drying tears left a horrible, sticky feeling over her downturned face. Don’t move.
Besides, more tears were sure to follow, eventually, as her scattered thoughts returned to the anger at hand. She could only distract herself so long, before the harsh electric light of the room pervaded her shelter, the cool, soothing darkness she sought to cloak herself in. Even now, bright sparks danced about her eyelids, as though they were sprites of a treacherous nature, or perhaps the dreaded, malicious will o’ wisps of folklore. She tried to delve deeper into her flimsy hiding place, to pretend again that she was a child, who thought that in not being able to see others, they in turn could not be seen.
“Come any nearer, and I will kill you.”
The remembrance of the unbridled menace in those soft words, spoken but a few minutes before, sliced through her, for she had recognised the truth laced into each syllable. It was this that held her deathly still, stifling her panicked, painful gasps for air into an occasional shallow drawing in of oxygen. The burning in her lungs was nearly unbearable, but all in all a welcome respite from the heart-stopping fear. Indeed, heart-stopping did not describe such a fear adequately, for yet one other sensation she could feel with alarming force was the pounding of her heart, so erratically and with such vigour that her chest heaved in time with its motions. She attempted to quell this forceful hammering within her, albeit without success – her terror merely caused a more rapid tempo – for it was a movement, and movement of any sort tied her down to reality. He would not hit her, nor punch her, for a mere tremor, even in the grip of this seething, wild fury, would not provoke him to such actions. No, physical sensations such as the light, the pain and feel of her pulse, were what kept her from mentally escaping the moment. She needed that escape, needed it more than breathing in that portion of time, since it was only herself she loathed in this situation, both for angering him to such proportions and for the helplessness and fear she felt. Reality was a terrible thing, and there was nothing she wanted less.
With escape to the imagination rendered impossible, she attempted desperately instead to concentrate only on those bodily actions, on breathing, on calming her hammering heartbeat.
It had happened before, but he had never hit her hard enough to bruise or break anything. It was the knowledge that he could, and that if she gave him any more incentive, he would. She understood only too well his side, for was she not herself so angry at him she could barely contain it? His anger was just one rung above hers, and she had propelled him to that height.