from the depths of a seashell
a grain of sand falls
called mature at eighteen years
all that I know of the world
ShimmerI have a number of friends, two of which are Seven and Rain.Shimmer by Falareste
Seven is a rock collector. He travels here and there and through every corner, dives through caves and scales waterfalls in search of rare stones. When he visits, it is always with a pack of mining tools and spelunking gear. His tools do not include a canary; I have yet to see a dust mask. Yet, when he visits, it is always in clear-throated health. (In lieu of lung disease, I asked him if he feared cave-ins instead. He said no.)
Rain is an artist. He searches fewer caves and climbs fewer waterfalls than Seven, but is nonetheless widely traveled, being a connoisseur of sweeping vistas and stately galleries. When he first visited, he asked to see the program I was coding (and at an impasse on). In response to my surprise at his interest, he said, Good code is like art in its elegance. He glanced at my code and remarked that I was missing a pointer. He was right.
When they visit, they leave g
the end of silencevoicelessly, they rosethe end of silence by Falareste
from sunlit depths, speaking
in glistens, in the gliding of eyes
in the pass of color over the gray and decayed
and blooming wrecks—
unnamed, but not nameless,
bone and bark
walls that were never
meant to keep anything out
now rustle like dead leaves
singing in a bone crown. Breath
through a bone flute. They rustle
in the wind that flees from
the storm clouds closing in.
ReticenceSpringtime. In my inbox is an invitation to join a honor society for English majors and minors. I idly wonder if they clear their mailing list.Reticence by Falareste
Gray, who does not enjoy being inside, spends his time standing at the window, watching people come and go. It is warm enough to walk outside without wearing two layers of sweaters, but there is always work to do inside.
I wake one night to Gray shaking my shoulder. I’d dreamt again about my mother dying. Sometimes I dream those dreams with horror, sometimes with relief, always with guilt.
This time, it had been horror. Gray sits at the foot of my bed while I hug my blankets and remember that my mother is not dead yet. When we talk, our voices carry softly through the darkness.
Everything you want is on the other side of fear.
What would you do if you weren’t afraid?
A respected author said she’d written those two quotes on yellow Post-Its and tacked them above her desk, to read every morning before she started
Lessons for TodayToday in math class, they would be learning how to factor quadratic equations. Miss Gracie, called Mrs. G by her students, knew this because she had the lesson planned out meticulously across three-and-a-half sheets of college-ruled notebook paper, which sat neatly in a folder before her. She knew because, like with all her lessons, she had recited it in front of her dressing mirror last night, right before bed.Lessons for Today by Falareste
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes left until class. Its tick, tick, tick was the only sound in the room.
She looked around the room. Nothing but the equation charts that she covered with long sheets of colored paper during tests (always to the dismay of the students) and Tu fui, ego eris. Latin. What you are, I was; what I am, you will be. She stared at it. She had written it out on a sheet of white cardstock and stuck it to the wall with blue tape on her first day. It seemed like a kind and encouraging quote, a reflection
compareeins.compare by jaani-androphile
the smoke pouring out of her mouth,
(misty coils of a vague filth,
dancing to noir jazz, fading with each note)
smudged lipstick on the side of of her mouth,
and the little streak that crawled to her tooth
when she bit her lip in a supposed wonder,
and her eyes threw a faint film over themselves,
(like an elegant lady wraps a silk shawl around herself in a light breeze)
the light feet of a dancer
whose calluses were hidden under tight shoes,
whose toes would arch like Nut over her children,
(and she or you would spin with the earth, holding her frame as if-
as if earth was something of mass, as if it had a shape to hold onto)
whose leg would stretch over her head,
her arms, long, pretty, snakes, her fingers curled, and her wrists tense
(her eyelashes were grazing her cheekbones,
her ballet whisking her like a beaten egg, and the laces of her shoes
caught on a rusty nail, which sliced her ankle open, a wince danced on her lips,
No need for points- this is just a placeholder for my close readings/analyses of poems.
"I'm not much of a poet, nor am I much of a critic, but I believe strongly that the key to writing poetry well is reading it well- reading many different styles, from many different poets, and understanding how their poems are put together. There's far more to a good poem than a rhyme and a metaphor or two.
The poems I pick will not be from deviantART, but from known/published poets (some fringe poets as well as Frost, Williams, Keats, and so forth), though I do plan on doing some dA poetry features sometime."
List of close readings so far:
--I. Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish: falareste.deviantart.com/journ…
--II. At Roane Head by Robin Robertson: falareste.deviantart.com/journ…
--III. Evening Hawk by Robert Penn Warren: falareste.deviantart.com/journ…
Updates every Friday/Saturday.