Daily Lit Deviations for May 8th, 2011
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Featured by thetaoofchaos
Missus Lady-With-Black-GlassesMissus lady with
Black glasses passes pushing
Her swaddling'd charge
In a carriage down the alley
The air is cold and dry and stingy
And missus lady sings a can
Of chicken soup unto the
Carriage contents' tiny lips
Steamy strand by
Knows not the manner
Such stuff is manufactured
Nor what said's scientific properties
What missus lady does, ye see
With her second throat a smattering
Of the matter
Of the surroundings
That have shaped her, lends her blood
Streamy Strand by
Not by knowledge
Not even by love
Fill the gap
Behind her baby's
Missus Lady-With-Black-Glasses by pereubuisjesus
With phonetic appeal, this biographical
poem paints a portrait of motherhood as purely
instinctual. The combination of style and subject
seem to blend well, offering an overall satisfying result.
Suggested by namenotrequired
Featured by bowie-loon123
For The Poet[Personally I think it's my best poem ever. Enjoy!]
For a poet,
The beauty of the rainbow lies not in its colors,
For a poet,
Its beauty lies in the invisible dance between the breeze and light,
Which forms its shape and gives birth to its hues in misty sights.
For a poet,
The city is a jungle of wild, tall structures,
Beasts among smaller suburb rodents,
City windows: the butterflies upon a building's bark,
At night, dancing fireflies light the prairie roads.
A poet sees not the sun and moon,
But the sky's irises;
One golden, the other a silvery hue.
The ocean, for the poet, is not merely water,
But a mirror map for the sky,
Upon which it tracks its flying birds and cotton clouds.
For a poet,
The pen is not a writing utensil, nor is paper just a sheet,
He respects his companions,
Pen, Pencil and ink, inanimate to them, full of life to him,
For they create weaving art upon a fragile parchment map;
Treasures, the meaning of its contents,
Golden, the passion of its thoughts.
For a poet,
For the Poet by AztecTemplar
The suggester noted that this poem
is "one that many poets and other artists -
to an extent - can relate to: How they feel
they see the world differently from how
others see it."
Suggested by: inknalcohol
Featured by: MyLastBlkRose
TrainsIt had been around Christmas. I guess it was the day after the 25th where everybody was still doped with egg nog and stuff.
I had been freezing my ass off at this train station waiting for nothing in particular. Just sitting there contemplating if I should board a train or stay right there on that terribly cold wire-bench.
At some point, you came to sit beside me. I hadn't noticed your appearance at the station and suddenly you sat there asking me if I had a fire.
Your lighter just wouldn't give a spark anymore.
I asked a fag, in return, and you gave me the package. I could do this trick where you flick your pointer at the bottom of the pack and just one single cig got out.
Perhaps you were impressed, I didn't know. I don't know.
For a while, we just sat there silently smoking beside each other.
Trains arrived and departed.
People arrived and departed.
In the end we would always be the only ones left. I enjoyed your company although we weren't talking and it was so freezing cold that I
"Trains" by estathex
Its not a literary masterpiece riddled
with metaphors and beautiful imagery, but it is
a sweet little interlude into what seems
like an otherwise depressing day. What can I say?
Im a hopeless romantic and this
Suggested by xlntwtch
Featured by Leona629
I found him in Happy Hollow, the woods that's on the outskirts of the city. He was a little ways off the path me and my sister, Nahla, take to school, 'cept Nahla was sick that day so it was just me by myself. It's not the fastest way to get to school, but we can't go through Northampton or else the bullies that live there will throw dirt clods at us. After I found him I took him to this old shed out there. It's got a hole in the roof but I figured the little guy'd be safe there on account of it's a good ways away from the Northampton houses; plus you can't hardly see it through all the leaves and branches and stuff. His fur was real white and real soft, just like snow 'cept it wasn't cold. It was warm and fuzzy so it made you wanna squeeze him real tight. I liked playing with his ears cuz they was all floppy, 'cept when you made a weird noise, then they'd stick straight up and he'd tilt his head sideways and look at you funny. He had a long bushy tail and sharp little baby teeth
happy hollow by BadNarrator
A fantasy laced with commentary about
being "different," told from the point
of view of a child in a new place.
FFeatured by kamy-ska
De enarrationibusDe enarrationibus*
¿Quién no ha tenido ganas de huir ante el temible vocablo "crítica"? Basta la percepción auditiva de la palabra (esdrújula, con dos fonemas oclusivos y uno vibrante que le dan una entonación agresiva) para sentir un "rugido" amenazante. Mas, ¿qué es la crítica? Según la RAE:
"[...]8. f. Examen y juicio acerca de alguien o algo y, en particular, el que se expresa públicamente sobre un espectáculo, un libro, una obra artística, etc.
9. f. Conjunto de los juicios públicos sobre una obra, un concierto, un espectáculo, etc.[...]"
Claramente, sólo un examen o juicio público. Pero, no me parece suficiente para definir la crítica literaria. Para ello deberíamos observar también una definición de literatura  (Íbid):
"1. f. Arte que emplea como medio de expresión una lengua. "
El asunto comienza a enredarse, por el requerimiento de otro término comp
De enarrationibus by Gablot
This is an academic essay or an editorial
about the Critics, about what is and what it
should be. A work very detailed and very interesting.
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Prepared by: damina