The Noble Exhumed -- Nightmares Pile Like Bodies

Originally Posted by Shade Die Margrave

Depletion

I was running on an empty tank. Pulled roadside, lighting a scene lined in loose yellow tape. There were some sons and daughters on the prowl, teeth BIBLE-BLACK and their lips a-howl. Thought I was lost but found the stick-shift, tried to reverse but they were coming real SWIFTLY. Underhandedly, I wondered if I could take them SOUTHBOUND. Flickering in and out of vision, they diffused into modern ART. An urban corpse wreathing me, the spectral violence ensnaring shapes in the DARK. No need to understand, they said, just take my HAND. A regime of bought-and-sold soldiers forced me inside. They tried to cross me over, action without THOUGHT. Earlier on this bleeding, brooding day, you'd lain with me, in the RAIN. I had said, I think God is losing his touch. You moved away. In this stream of action and reaction, how does preternatural come into play? With questions to force open black holes in the supermassive, I LAUGHED until the sun came up. How would the world come to FIRE? Bring it on.

This is a remnant of my seething ashes.

:glare
Where was I? Ahh right.

Ohh well the imagery is good, you seem to have a clear vision of what you are trying to get across. However you stumble a few times, you have the skill but not the vocabulary. Overall I think you've laid it out quite well, it reads fine but... and this is just a slight observation here, you are trying FAR to hard to be abstract.

Right to the point where you have lost the original meaning.

Originally Posted by Pàxèn

:glare
Where was I? Ahh right.

Ohh well the imagery is good, you seem to have a clear vision of what you are trying to get across. However you stumble a few times, you have the skill but not the vocabulary. Overall I think you've laid it out quite well, it reads fine but... and this is just a slight observation here, you are trying FAR to hard to be abstract.

Right to the point where you have lost the original meaning.

Abstractions can be a hard habit to break. Thank you, Pax, for taking the time to evaluate at least a single bit of this poetry. After all, I do agree with the maxim that there can never be enough practice. Also, yes, I have been a bit prideful over the years over never taking the time to use more colorful wording. I'll make a point to start studying some terms.

Puer Aeternus, Pt. II

Return to a child in warfare. Consuming so much make-believe, he spat it out and found his feral crown beyond the thicket of your whittled wills. Skies tremble at the leisure of his games. Tonight, the stars will fight for his favor. The dead will instill strength in him; do him good and smile all the while. As the crash of waves bled out shell after shell, the bleached crests parted from his wrist with each caress of ocean blue. Adventure is his maiden, as surely as the new night is laden with the biting heat of mysteries.

Continent

This is the host; a
still watery sepulcher, graven
with footsteps of godfathers
that create the crumbling
climbing hazards along the cusp.
Nary need a watercolor heart apply
to swim amongst crabs (the snap of disarray)
or disjointed schemings into these forays
to find a sand-sculpted salvation at coast’s end.

Can't I?

Why do these specters
Lead me along roads they know
I can't help but stray?

In the heat of these days
My heart burns, asks
For the sight of some sign, an ending
For all..
For all that has come to pass.

What scares me the most is this:
Though, once there was dimension,
All this life has turned to glass.

In the frostbitten forest of dead night
I will come to terms with what will never last
And in the dreams that they've killed...
Find that final page.

Well, Shade, I have sat here reading these works of yours on this last page. My overall opinion is that your writing is always very beautiful... but, on occasion at least, far too confusing. Often I'll find I like certain individual phrases, or lines, or even stanzas, of a work, but can't make heads or tails of the piece as a whole. Perhaps it is just that it's late and I have troubles with interpreting your work... but it's something you'll want to be careful of. It's easy to become too lost in pretty phrases in abstract wording, and lose your meaning somewhere in it all.

I really, REALLY liked "Two to One, Revisited". It was a beautiful story, wonderfully told. I loved the change throughout it, as the character grew and morphed from his thoughts and his experiences. Your imagery in it is amazing (that would be one of your strong points, I've noticed). And I really enjoyed the final line, "There was a prayer, then, from the now-white Devil, that everyone would kneel beneath the tree." Very simple, but amusing and meaningful. Nice job.

I hope you don't think I was too harsh. I really, really enjoy your work. ^_^ *tosses Shade a brownie* Keep writing.

Originally Posted by southern belle

Well, Shade, I have sat here reading these works of yours on this last page. My overall opinion is that your writing is always very beautiful... but, on occasion at least, far too confusing. Often I'll find I like certain individual phrases, or lines, or even stanzas, of a work, but can't make heads or tails of the piece as a whole. Perhaps it is just that it's late and I have troubles with interpreting your work... but it's something you'll want to be careful of. It's easy to become too lost in pretty phrases in abstract wording, and lose your meaning somewhere in it all.

I really, REALLY liked "Two to One, Revisited". It was a beautiful story, wonderfully told. I loved the change throughout it, as the character grew and morphed from his thoughts and his experiences. Your imagery in it is amazing (that would be one of your strong points, I've noticed). And I really enjoyed the final line, "There was a prayer, then, from the now-white Devil, that everyone would kneel beneath the tree." Very simple, but amusing and meaningful. Nice job.

I hope you don't think I was too harsh. I really, really enjoy your work. ^_^ *tosses Shade a brownie* Keep writing.

*catches brownie in mouth* I'm so complex to read mainly because (I think) poetry is best when it's personal...When things are so cut and dried, it's hard to make a really fantastic poem for me. But thanks a ton for your comments. I suppose I should start linking things clearer for people. I might even just start another poetry thread so I can do it right.

Hello, all loyal readers. All three of you, I want you to know I'll also be throwing random thoughts in with the rest of my mirror polishing. Take this little scrap, for example. If you think this is something that's worth posting in my thread, let me know and I'll keep these coming.


The Nature of Suicide

It came to my attention a month or so ago: A friend and I were discussing the last moments of Socrates, and when I brought up the topic of his death, he stopped me there and stated that he already knew the philosopher had taken his own life after his trial with Meletus. I thought, this is not what I remember reading; what I had read was that instead of trying to escape, Socrates accepted the death sentence he was given by the government, and so was killed by those individuals. But then I wondered, is that suicide in itself? The nature of it was not meant as an expression of hate towards himself; on the contrary, it was a sign of Socrates's loyalty to the government that had raised him since of old. But the action, seeing as he could have escaped, would seem foolish to many, even today.

But that notion ignores many determinants of Socrates's decision to face his punishment. For example, his desire to teach wisdom would have generated more hatred from those who saw him as a heretic against the gods. He would be placed in another trial, just like the one he faced before. This is hardly a desirable situation, to endure more and more scorn whereever one goes.

Another factor was that Socrates was not the one who exerted the force that killed him. It was the corrupt court that had him put to death, and it was the court that fulfilled it. No proverbial bloodstain on the hands of Socrates, and another point against it being a suicide. However, one could see it equally his fault for not escaping, but think of the implications of that. What if every man who claimed himself innocent was to run free of the law? It would be anarchy, and no doubt men of lesser purity would uphold that same ideal of wrongful accusations...It cannot be abided by, if one is to have a governing body. Inmates guilty of their crimes do not try to justify the crime unless it is somehow ethical TO DO SO, as Socrates argued with Euthyphro regarding the question of whether the Gods deeming something beloved makes it pious, or whether it has characteristics that the Gods declare pious or impious. True criminals would, if they dare to at all, simply deny the crime that they have commited, not that it has no weight. But the exception is seen in religion; ritual traditions that invoke societal anger can involve cursing at the God of said religion, and that kind of taboo is not a true crime, so it is ruled out of this argument.

In short, the philosophical question comes, how does one define the true characteristics of suicide? If Socrates is a suicide, so is the Christian figure Jesus, assuming hypothetically his role truly was holy. But, if that is a suicide, then he would have been damned, because suicide is an unforgivable sin in the religion. This would undermine the belief system, and I think this is another sign someone else recognizes the difference between martyr and suicide.

If Socrates was a martyr, he was a martyr for his government, and I think this term better states his position. But why be a martyr to something that wants his destruction? That is another question best answered by his loyalty to what it stands for. Also, Socrates probably thought his place was in his region, and going somewhere else was unbecoming. Either way, his name remains a legacy to wisdom and philosophy to this day.

Can't I?

Why do these specters
Lead me along roads they know
I can't help but stray?

In the heat of these days
My heart burns, asks
For the sight of some sign, an ending
For all..
For all that has come to pass.

What scares me the most is this:
Though, once there was dimension,
All this life has turned to glass.

In the frostbitten forest of dead night
I will come to terms with what will never last
And in the dreams that they've killed...
Find that final page.

Feedback Loop Across the Burning Bridge

Speaking out, I pray these soft words,
riding on this horizon, meet
What I once was; to retreat
into living memories and strike back.

The spectres of whom you tire
Bind their hearts with wires,
Thin tethers spinning about without
doubt whether there is need
to speed at all,
see this.

Burning along this bridge, the quantum feed
you read, old friend, is null from that side onward.
I too will move on. What was and is as you read
decays and just isn't...present.

Your collision course won't end.

There is no dimension, there is no glass.
Nor is there neither dimension nor glass,
Nor is it both dimension and glass.
But it IS.

The spirits pull, they seek the end.
Somewhere therein, they held you
to concepts, constructs, stained.

Beyond this play of Modern Prometheus,
the passion bound and chained,
there is a book, true;
but you will tire
and be ensnared in wire
if you keep seeking
with fevered flips of page,
what is impossibility.

This is a big remake of a poem I've posted here before.


Photographic (The Old Deluder)
By Tobin Erebusan, a.k.a. Matt Barnett

I took your soul in a photographic flash.
Decisions in time grow rash:
Buy a new roll of halide, or stay
with sorrowful sentiments of a red-eyed yesterday.

Though they are poignant, I can't remain this way.
Precious metal no longer, this silver tarnishes to the grain.

(An image drips in a red room, slain.)

Accursed Phoenix, I don't want you.
Not even the ashes may stay of this refuge,
lest a conflagration revive to burn my mood.

(Know the lens and you shall see the truth.)

Inevitable stranger, mind razer, I won't fight you:
You can find them in the crevices of a nameless, antique maze.
Unbind them, and rewind them. I remember those days.

(The mercy of a Zero suits as serum for this malaise.)

Efface each bitter subject as malady from my memory.
In a craving beyond means, I must be released
from these annals of haunted-and-framed history.

(Digital eyes see fit to seethe through me.)

Dear Death, take hold of this deluder's display of paradise-once-found,
then mark this ruin as your burning ground.

Le Miserable Fils

My Mother loves my soul as a politician.
Days are and were spent gorging it with holy nutrition.

Divinity, discipline, and a double-talk of verbal asceticism.
In her absence builds a virulent skepticism.

The hunger comes and paints it coal-death-and-hades black,
a caged panther cat, trekking heavily a weathered track.

The respite of sleeping visions was refuge for only a spell,
as my night hours were eventually disturbed and fed to her Hell.

She came twice as an apparition,
a mobster matriarch, a cruel physician

who took good time and bullet to ensure
that all my spirit's dreams would not endure.

They were dressed in only Sunday's best,
buried deep within my chest.

Only lately did they start that maddening din
against the thread of their velvet tombs' skin,

begging against silence for "recreation, reanimation!"
I deign to answer them; time will tell of their resurrection.

But my heart will never forget the nightmare sketch
of the gunslinger, my throat a wet carnation, and dying, like a wretch.

These are haiku I have written.


The gasping sky
adores all birds-
no feather falls uncaught.
_____________________________________

Crows rip and tear
as the body dances
they share sweet secrets

_____________________________________

The water drools
a chlorine flavor running
untasted around my feet.

_____________________________________