this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!
The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's SpecialsLiteraturePoetry
Beauty Ad NauseamCan we step through time and hope she learns that
1. She is her own, and
2. She is, sincerely, only hers.
She finds it funny. She can read and re-read your words until the repetition of it all drains the colors of her lips, and scrapes the gerunds and infinitives from her teeth, but unlike her own, your words are always beautiful.
HippopotamusThere's a happy hippopotamus
Hippo plodding along,
As the toucan band
Sang him his song.
He's a little happy,
Little hippy, happy hippopotamus.
Then down from a tree,
Came his friend, the monkey.
Said 'Mr Pottywottymus,
Look at me!'
'I can sing you a song
And it won't be too long,
So you can hippo party along'
'You're a little happy,
Little hippy happy hippopotamus'
While the monkey sang,
Snuck Mr 'Rangutan,
Behind Mr Pottylottymus,
For they had thunk a plan.
So the monkey sang his song,
Which is getting quite long,
But fun if you hippopotty along.
Bout a little happy,
Concrete dreamsHer words were forced,
Her body sweat bullets,
her eyes shifting from
l e f t to r i g h t,
[back and forth.]
A tear forged a path,
c r o o k e d l y
Own SkinI bought myself a Moleskine
to emulate Picasso, Hemingway
was never seen without his
in canal-side cafes, Spanish bull rings.
My fingers grease its ebon spine
over and over in tactile search
for some hidden leak of creative essence
I found Dante's house
down an old narrow street
alongside a crowd of German tourists
I did not enter only stared
at his stones, the exterior.
The hotel room is filled
with the buzz of the alleyway below,
restaurant kitchens' backdoors opening
for cooks, waitstaff, rubbish bags and oaths,
effusive shoppers admiring new pashmina
scarves haggled from vendors
in the adjacent market square.
I close t
NaPoWriMo 6~ Most Deeply Ingrained
The etchings upon
metallic structure paints life
in a strong relief -
its raw emotion reveals
every shadow and every love.
Only clever eyes
notice these small details
of every second -
just as the dog who answers
every knock at the door.
All of time affects
this breathing canvas; careful
strokes are required -
least the heart shatters; no glue
may make the soul whole again.
Falling thickly, ink
drowns the streetscape in colour
children's chalk on the pavement
as welcome as graffiti.
Resistant, the sky
inhaled remains grey, unchanged
from its weariness -
not unlike conservative
Haiku: MountainSuch a great mountain
I'm too heavy to climb it
My luggage is my heart.
If life was a little less mundaneI hold my pen between two fingers - two teeth -
because it's easier than cradling brainchildren between
two brainwaves. Balance is another thing I have to work on.
I'm learning how to untangle the infinite-simplicities bundled
up at my feet;
I'm trying to whistle through the airwaves,
but, mostly, it just chaps my lips and makes my head
s w a y and swing on its axis.
Because, really, who in this world understands stoichiometry(?)
when no one can fucking sit still and concentrate for ten minutes
without wishing to be somewhere else, and then somewhere else,
and then nowhere [all at once.]
One day, I think I'd like to mail a messa
I WANT TO BE A UNICORNSome say they want to see a unicorn and see the magic that be,
but I want to be a unicorn and be the unfurling magic I see,
an innocent child of nature, my lunar goodness I will reflect
in every rippling current my horn annoints, evil I will deflect
far from me and those who believe in the power of a pure heart
I will come to them, brightening their shade with my mythic art.
I want to be a unicorn and be the magic that is me,
goodness spiraling outward from my being others will see
-and the gentle wisdom reflected in my new moon eyes,
I will live my life with a pure heart sweet and silvery-dyed
by the enchantment spun by the forest
One-Way StreetI always thought
we would both leave,
but as you grew older
I wondered whether
one of us would be
Our friendship failed
as strangers became neighbours
and you left the town
I’ve come to realize
is equal in spite and beauty.
And so I stayed
but return regularly,
through the fields
I walked in as a child
drinking the wine and champagne
I found in hedgerows.
I cracked them open
and swallowed both
the alcohol and broken glass.
I took a stone from the byway
to my new home
and in time
I threw it
into the wetlands
I’m reminded of the scar line
after I ripped my bicep open
on the barbed wire
The Death of VenusIf there lived in the world a man
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who took to the black woods and the silver hills
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
air sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.
Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.Prose
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
EternityI fear eternity.
Strange, I know.
It's that limitless expanse of time. Never finished. Not even closer to being finished.
To live each morning knowing I have an infinite number left.
Terrifying and monotonous.
I believe in heaven.
Heaven is eternal.
It makes my stomach flip and my heart pound and my mind race to imagine a world where my life will never end. Day after day. Week after week. Month after Month.
Millenia after millenia.
Forever: it's a scary word for me. So intangible. I only have a tenuous hold on the very basis of that thought. Forever. Never ending. Infinite. Always. So frightening.
And I can't escape.
never grow up.I have a monster living underneath my bed.
Hes made up of burnt frog skin, white-red cobweb veined eyes and a collection of missing pebble teeth. Sometimes we play scrabble.
(The first time he was just a mechanical hum beneath the bowing wooden planks, he was just a faint smell of green and he was just a hot cloud of fog around my lips. Its the wind, its the wind, I breathed. Then he breathed back, heavy and loud and monster-like; AM NOT.)
He always spoke in capitals; MONSTERS ARE MUCH TOO SCARY FOR LOWER-CASED LETTERS, he informed me one night under pink covers. I shined the flashlight into his eyes until they changed co
taught to love.I was the robotic specimen made flesh and blood, learning day in, day out like a slave. You were the freedom I longed to have, smoking each day away while reclining in the back seat of a metal box in the parking lot, a little like a prince.
I wrote and scribbled quite often. I was pretending to be scholarly. A master of literature. You drank coffee (with whisky, of course) from a polystyrene cup because you broke all the ceramic ones. A master of temptation, alcohol, sex and maybe, just maybe, wiping your own ass on a rare but highly celebrated occasion.
Oh, and you werent such a terrible teacher, either.
You wrote logical
stuck like glue it started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.
and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.
but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.
and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to e
A Handful of Moths The mountain is a pincushion for cactus. It looks like some irritated desert deity just threw saguaros like spears at the hillside until s/he ran out of spears.
It's movie night, and that means that tires crunch through the gravel at the drive-in to see the latest stars-and-explosions movie. It's robots tonight, great city-wrecking things with Hollywood voices and gears spinning behind their ear plates. That means that we pile into the cars and go, plaid rugs flung over the backs of the seats, plaid shirts over tank tops, team bumper stickers. Go Team! It's cooled down to seventy-five degrees and the condensation on my soda cup drops down t
Analise April, 1921
"And we could get a little house," she continued. "Somewhere near the coast. I hear it's still nice by the coast."
"Sure," he said.
"You don't think so?"
"No, it is."
She snuggled close to him, putting her head against his chest, pressing her shoulder up in the crook of his arm. She was so small. "I always did think a cottage would be nice. In Biarritz, maybe."
"You're right, too many tourists in Biarritz. Maybe south, towards the mountains. We could have a nice little cottage down by the mountains. Near the sea."
"Yes, we could."
She lifted her face; her radiant, round face framed with
Ink VoiceWhile the other children spilled into the playground, Ren stayed inside. She sat in her beanbag and leafed through a book. Ren loved stories as much as she hated talking. This late into the year, she had read and reread every child-battered book on the shelf several times. And she loved them all.
They smelled like . . . magic.
Stories were doors and Ren used them to fall into other worlds.
Except, not really. She only pretended to do so, and it was hard to pretend when grownups decide to interrupt her quiet reading.
"Which book are you reading today, Ren?" Miss Payper asked.
Don't say a word.
Ren did not look up at her teacher. She cont
Paper PusherThere's chemistry in the business, just not from this side of the uniform; they're having their dinners on their Saturday nights, fingers grapevining around wine glasses, feet touching under the table. In the corner a man plays guitar, finger-picking his way around the noise of the bar crowd. Men move their chairs around the table to be next to their lovers.
They are too close to notice as I bring them more wine, too close to really be listening to each other.
At a neighboring table, a woman taps her glass pointedly. I pretend not to notice.
In the back, behind the curtain, the radio meshes with the sounds from the restaurant. The man wit
WiresHumanity's relationship with wires fascinates me.
From birth to death, our whole lives are regulated by wires. An egg leaves the ovary and travels down the Fallopian tube, and this is the way we are made. The umbilicus connects us to our parent. Arteries and veins look very much like wires, and it is they that nourish our bodies with oxygen and blood. The most precious thing in our body, the central nervous system, is essentially a thick cord of wires running from our brain to our tailbone.
Eyes are attached to our brain by stems. Ears are hollow wires which run deep into our heads. Muscles are made of tubes of specialized cells. Intestines
Estranga ScottBy accidentally picking up the phone, she was forced to drive two hours toward her hometown of Green Tripp, population approximately 85,000. Seattle, she hoped, would still be there when she got back. The time spent driving would be not for worrying about her city life but about the tight knots tied inside of her stomach; she wondered with guilt how bad the situation would be once she arrived at her old front door. Her sister, Gracette, was not frantic on the phone when she had called, but really, that could mean anything, she thought as she drove closer and closer to a past existence. Eight times during the course of the two-hour trip, Estra
On Second Commandment, Jews, and Abstract Art.
On Second Commandment, Jews, and Abstract Art.
Before the likes of Helen Frankenthaller and Yves Klein, there were the likes of Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock, and before them there were the Russian Suprematists, and before them there was the Second Commandment:
"Thou shalt not make to thyself an idol, nor likeness of anything, whatever things are in the heaven above, and whatever are in the earth beneath, and whatever are in the waters under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down to them, nor serve them; for I am the Lord thy God, a jealous God, recompensing the sins of the fathers upon the children, to the third and fourth generation to them
HypocrisyApproximately nine in the morning, and they've already started at it. White porcelain cupped between my hands, I stare out the window of the coffee house, sipping my tepid beverage within the time restraints of my break.Photography
"People constantly protest war and think it's possible to live the comfortable lives they do. I just don't see how they could be so ignorant toward the hard truth; if we stop fighting, it doesn't mean our enemies will." A tall, slightly plump man spoke across the two tables pushed together. His city police uniform tailored itself awkwardly over his sunken shoulders. I was happy to see my tax dollars hard at work, preaching t
I've finally decided to hold a contest!
Right now I'm stuck on a choice for a theme
Please help by answering and corresponding to this link to my poll. Over HERE- [link]
PLZ Only if you can, kindly DONATE POINTS TO MY DONATION POOL PLZ. On my page of course HERE- [link]
I NEED ME SOME PRIZE DONORS- Features, Llamas, Critiques, Commissions and YOU TELL ME <3
Also, who is willing to HELP ME SPREAD THE WORD after the THEME is FINALIZED PLZ?
I hope I can get enough prizes to truly push through with this contest!
POINT DONOR LIST:
PRIZE DONOR LIST:
3-Month Premium Membership to 1st place winner =doughboycafe
Custom adopatable pet kitty from ~Yorokobi-san
Features for the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners from *KJ-Illustration, =doughboycafe =DrippingWords
=ohsparrowsong ~CelestialMemories and
Llamas for the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners from *Lacewinged-Beauty =DrippingWords
~CelestialMemories and *disrhythmic
Feature for the 1st place winner from *Lacewinged-Beauty
Poetry commission from =DrippingWords
Poetry or prose commission =ohsparrowsong
For all the generous souls who DONATE, expect a special feature after the CONTEST
Tagged by the ever-amazing *lantern-rose
Here are the rules:
1. You must post the rules.
2. Each person must post 5 things about themselves in their journal
3. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post, and create eleven new questions for the people you tag to answer.
4. You have to choose 11 (or less, if you want) people to tag and post their icons on your journal.
5. Go to their page and tell them you have tagged them.
6. No tag backs.
7. No stuff in the tagging section about "you're tagged if you're reading this". You must legitimately tag people.Five Random Things About Me
i. I started practicing yoga last month and so far find it quite refreshing and a good change of pace
ii. I have people in my life that call out to me as if I were a real kitty with lines like, "pssst. Here kity, kitty, kitty..."
iii. Almost everything dairy makes me so very very happy
iv. I already know what I'd want to name my first son and daughter, for a long time now
v. Most times when I want to cry but cannot find a secluded spot to do so, I'd just break down with laughter instead.
Btw, I've decided to choose and answer only 5 out of the originally 10 questions *lantern-rose
I'm running out of time, as always 1 Who do you think is the best Villain and why? Did they have any redeemable qualities or did you pick them because they were most scary?
In real life, Josef Stalin without a doubt. Why? His death toll (most from his own people, too) beat Adolf Hitler's Holocaust, who takes second place by the way.
In anything else, a three-way time among
Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of The Lambs),
Lord Voldemort (Harry Potter) and
Why? They're freaking nuts, that's why.2 Who is you favorite Super Hero or protagonist of a story and why? What did you discover about their faults?
In real life, a tie between Nelson Mandela and Indira Gandhi
In anything else, another three-way tie among
Hua Mulan (from both The Ballad of Mulan and Disney's Mulan) She is the definition of women little girls should look up to.
Wolverine (X-Men) because I've been reading the comics since before I lost my baby teeth and now again also because Hugh Jackman is on fire
and Ranma Saotome (Ranma 1/2) because no matter what happens I'll always be a die-hard fan3 What is your favorite fruit?
But, but, I love all fruits!
Seriously, I do 4 What's your most memorable toy from childhood?
Technically not a toy, but a wind-up music box with a twirling prima ballerina to the tune of Beethoven's "Fur Elise" 5 If you could go anywhere in the world for vacation where would you want to go and why?
Republic of Seychelles [link]
Need I say moar? My Questions1. What would you name your first daughter? son?
2. What is the one person/place/thought you run to whenever you need to forget a sad situation?
3. What is your favorite vegetable?
4. Sports or dance and what kind exactly?
5. Because I'd love to see what your handwriting looks like, would you consider posting a page from your journal here on dA?I TAG