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,
Little hot, but
Little hippy happy hippopotamus.
But when the song slowed,
Mr Potty did know,
Of a wallet sized hole
In the pocket of a
Not so happy,
Little hippy happy hippopotomous.
The monkey did shout
For 'Ranga to get out,
Cos Mr Pottynottymus
Is charging about.
And no one sang the song,
Of the hippo-ma-tron,
Cos he ate Mr 'Rangutan.
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 the window.
The shaft of my pen is bent
and buckled, cratered with teethmarks,
the plastic pocket-clip
long snapped off.
It smells of stale ink
and lemon balm handcream,
the brass ballpoint idling
dry in its socket.
I bought myself a lambskin leather-jacket,
russet brown to match my boots
before they seeped their colour
across Florence's rain-soaked cobbles.
My feet mo
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
uniforms worn by the law.
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 message to civilization
and envelope the world [pre- and post-mortem, if I have to.]
"If my titrations are correct, we should have reached the
equivalence point by now."
I write for fear the end is coming soon.
Everyone treats me like a stranger as I scurry on by, and it
makes me shiver and curl my arms around my books
menshe liked her men
spare and sparse
lean of words
without flowers in their hands
their shirt sleeves rolled up
to show the world
how hard they lived,
their legs tucked into boots
as thick and dark as calluses
she liked them sprawled
elbows on the table
their forks demanding her attention
spearing the meat
like clean kill
chewing with the gusto
of young rams
their teeth reminding her
of how devouring was
a holy act
and she would dream
of those hands
curious beasts of prey
skin freckled with the grit of stars
and gravel from wrong turns
making paths across her blouse
pulling her skirt up
to meet their questions
and of how her throat
like it had no will
at the whisper of her name.
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
run harder to catch it.
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.
Can't die. No suicide in heaven.
Can't sleep. No weariness in heaven.
Can't cry, can't fall: can't comprehend it.
Forever is a terror and I am afraid.
Afraid of the unknown and of the known, repeating itself. Over and over.
Eternity in even a perfect world, in heaven, and I am still afraid.
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 colour and he bared his teeth.
He sometimes visits my dreams. The grass turns sickly where he trudges and the woodland creatures whimper and scramble in his wake. WHERES MY HUG? He holds his warm monster limbs out, palms snatching me from my happy-ever-after and grins gap-toothily. I manage a chuckle as I buckle in his embrace.
He used to keep me
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 equations on a large, dusty blackboard which hung off the wall in the left corner ever-so-slightly and smelt of calcium carbonate. Twenty pairs of eyes bore through the back of your greasy and unkempt head as the chalk screeched across the surface. The twenty-first pair of eyes were buried in a copy filled with notes about the geometry of a circle a
stuck like glueit 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 each other [maybe because he always slept right through the lesson]. but late at night they would spend hour upon hour talking to each other, and she would struggle to keep her eyes open so that she wouldn't have to say goodnight, because she knew, after not very long at all, that he was special.
and for months they were like that - best friends, talkin
A Handful of MothsThe 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 to gather between my skin and the plastic.
We talk and talk and pay our dollars and park. The blanket gets tossed out like a bigtop tent and flattened in the bed of the pickup. The bed door falls down on its chains with a clunk.
The screen looms in front of the cars, cream-colored and silent. The logo of the drive-in dances around it like a screensave
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 continued to read The Gruffalo. It was funny, not scary, and very clever.
"Would you like to read aloud to me?"
If you talk, he will know. Oh, he'll know.
She didn't like reading aloud. Not really. The words were better on paper than on her tongue.
"Is there anything you would like to say?"
Never tell! Never never
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 with the guitar tells Jojo to get back, get back, get back to where he once belonged, while Conor Oberst croons through the speakers; I'm glad I didn't die before I met you.
You walk in with a glass of Coca-Cola; say it's got a little tangerine vodka; say shouldn't you be home by now; say you look like you need a break.
We lock ourselves in the boo
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 are essentially large ducts that move down to the sphincter, absorbing nutrients and arranging waste.
Once we have passed through the birth canal, wires sustain our existence. Wires bring us our electricity and water, power our machines, allow us to communicate with one another via fiber optics. A downed power line plunges us back into the dark ages
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, Estranga Scott had pulled her car over to the shoulder of the road and just waited there. Waited for some answer, a sign maybe to turn aroundback to her city and back to what she believed was her real life. Ten years was too long to suddenly start leaping back.
Estranga had picked up the phone on Th
On Second Commandment, Jews, and Abstract Art.
There will not be much discussion of abstract art in this volume, although some modern art will be considered. But as abstract art is very much part of our lives, and certainly a very large part of our museums, I've decided to get it done and over with by beginning this volume with this piece, which considers possible origins of conceptual art. There have been multiple studies on the subject of course, and perhaps the thesis I am about to propose has been advanced before. I hear that everything has been advanced before. But as I am unaware of it, I make bold to introduce it here with appropriate apologies to my possible precursor. I have no doubt that many a connoisseur will find this thesis objectionable, in which case I should warmly welcome a debate, for although I am far less hopeful than Socrates was of truth prevailing through polemic, I also humbly submit to his far greater and far more ancient wisdom.
Before the likes of Helen Frankenthaller and Yv
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 to the same group of older folks he sat with each morning. And like every other morning, the men always came to the same conclusion; "someone should really do something." Someone really should. But it wasn't going to be them.
Full grown men should at least know where opinions end and bitching starts. I wanted to let them know.
I wanted to ask the off
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- sammur-amat.deviantart.com/jou…
PLZ Only if you can, kindly DONATE POINTS TO MY DONATION POOL PLZ. On my page of course HERE- sammur-amat.deviantart.com/#do…
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 autumnlit
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 autumnlit
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 www.seychelles.travel/en/inter…
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