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-ON HIATUS-

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…

:bulletgreen:Updates every Friday/Saturday.

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    dAhub
    Donated May 4, 2014, 9:58:56 PM
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Journal History

Activity


A flash of silver feathers,
A gleam of golden flame;
In silence, he looks inwards;
And outwards, she takes aim.

And glancewise seems so bright and fair
The timbre of their thoughts;
Yet, both fast are bound:
He by flesh, she by care.

Within the shade, he waits to fade—
O what shall come of him?
She beats in rage against her cage—
O what shall come of her?
Those two, entwined until the end—
O, what shall come of them?
Interlace
A depressing little ditty written with the help of the muse.

Been in a pretty poor place health- and life-wise as of late--thank goodness for friends. Let's see if I can get out of it long enough to finish Cycles of Calm (which I should have done long ago).
Loading...
I debated myself on whether this was something worth posting to dA, and eventually decided that I would just post it as a journal rather than a deviation. Here is an essay of sorts written very recently for English 311 (aka Exposition), as part of an assignment on meaning via description--some of you may note parallels between this piece and the most recent Cycles of Calm entry, for which this essay was a good warm-up.

---

-The Winding Way-

Fairyland is real. I know this because, as a child, I made regular trips into that country during the summer. My family lived on the border between here and there, in a neighborhood of the sort favored by poets and new families: a small neighborhood, where everyone left cookie baskets on each other’s doorsteps at Christmas, and where, during Easter, we would spot deer watching us from the fringes as we gathered eggs, waiting for us to finish so that they could get back to the business of eating the best seedlings in our garden.

As expected, I spent much of my time outdoors as a child, as this was before the Internet became more than a word (or the place where my brother spent all his time, for reasons I would later understand all too well) to me. At first, I spent my time building miniature grass forts and tying dandelion rings in the front yard, but my imagination soon outgrew our lawn, and—due to it being a safe neighborhood—I was permitted to head up the hill to play with a neighbor’s golden retriever. She was too old and sagely for my antics, though, and soon I grew bored again, and began to wander ever further from my house.

To the north of the neighborhood lay woods, and a trail surrounded by tall grass, which the adults forbade the children of the neighborhood to enter alone on account of the wild animals that lived there. We could take the path, though, under the supervision of an adult or one of the older children. I made a friend (who I still remember vividly) who counted as something in between, either a young adult or an older-older child. In either case, he was qualified to accompany me along the path in the late summer afternoons, to walk with me until the sky deepened and the first fireflies began to glow.

How far along the path we walked varied per day, and there was plenty of path to walk. The first part of the path wound, riverlike, through abandoned fields, through seed-heavy grasses that swayed above my head. Passing by, we would hear the barking, chirruping, or squawking of the animals that dwelt behind the grass. We never stopped in the first section of the path—instead, we would amble onwards to where the forest began, to where the old, old mulberry trees grew. They belonged to no one, and so we were free to pick mulberries and eat them under the trees while listening to the animals. My friend knew much about the animals who lived there—which voice belonged to whom, what food each of them liked—and often, we would stop there, and he would tell me their names.

Sometimes, though, we would walk onward, leaving the fields behind and venturing deeper into the pleasant shade of the forest. The forest itself was half-wild, but friendly, and though its vines patterned the path, its trees never completely blocked out the sky. Here, the barking and squawking gave way to chirping and trilling, and my friend would pause, head cocked, to listen for and name this or that bird. Each time, he would mourn that I could not see them. He brought along an Audubon squeaker, and kissed the edge of his little finger—a tactic that he swore worked everywhere else, despite how ridiculous he looked—but no birds answered the call. Only once did we spot one, a tiny, loud-voiced swallow with a brilliant red chest and throat, who flew off shortly afterwards.

Many clearings dappled the woods towards their end, and here and there we could glimpse an aged bench or a leaf-covered slide. Further along the path laid a meadow with a small barn and a wheelbarrow out front, both of which were always, I remember, in excellent shape. We never saw the family to which they must have belonged, and so when we walked along the path and saw the wheelbarrow resting in a different spot each time, I imagined that it had a life of its own. My friend said nothing to disprove this. Instead, as the trees gave way to homely gardens and mossy ponds, we talked about more mundane things—my classmates, my teachers, the oppressively short recesses, the onset of that academic tax called homework.

He would listen patiently to all I had to say, smiling—enough to encourage, never enough to patronize. “I think you’re doing great,” he would say afterwards. “Keep it up—you really are doing better than you think.” They were words I always took for granted, back in those days. Further ahead, the path crested upwards, almost too slowly to notice, and then we would find ourselves atop a hill, watching the path drop away and snake though the meadows. In the distance, on the other end, there sprawled the darkly glinting roofs of another neighborhood. Here was where we always stopped, sometimes to take in the view, always to eventually turn back and head back down the path, back through the woods, back through the fields to our neighborhood. There was no reason for us to go further.

I spent two summers visiting that path before my father found a job at a major teaching hospital. Then we moved, my family and I, and for years I was shut up in a gated neighborhood where, both within and outside its walls for miles beyond, the trees grew only in neat rows and fountains dotted the lakes rather than fish.

One day, when I am free to buy flights of my own, I may return to my Fairyland and walk along the path again, seeing what has or has not changed. The mulberry trees, I am certain, will still be there, still bearing their best fruit on the branches that are too high for me to reach on my own. The neighborhood that I watched from the hill, too, will still stand—I cannot speak for the wheelbarrow. The fields may be ever more overgrown, or their wildness may have been trimmed back. But they will still be there, creaking in the wind.

But there are others I am not so certain about. My memories may have been distorted by time, as I remember a raccoon we saw with jagged black stripes, and frogs that wore lilypads for hats. I remember butterflies larger than I have ever seen elsewhere, and a creature with fur—hair?—as green as a lime, that dove back into the grass as we passed by. I do not even know if I remember my friend correctly, or even if I am remembering him at all—if I am not imagining him instead. For when I remember him, I remember him—a young man—with silver hair.

It is all real to me, though. It is as real as the house I lived in after we moved away from that neighborhood—real as the gold-flecked black marble countertops, real as the elaborate, twisted, wrought-iron railings, real as the enormous picture windows flanking the living room, from which I would sometimes hear a thud and through which I would see a bird lying in the grass with a broken neck. It is as real as the unlit closet I would, late at night, find my mother crying in, sometimes because of my father, sometimes because of me. It is all real, necessarily so.

And it will continue to be real, even if—when—I return. I do not expect to see raccoons with spiky fur, or butterflies larger than my hand. I do not know if I will see my friend, though I will stand under the mulberry trees and try to remember all that he told me. I will stand there, between the forest and the fields or upon a hill, listening to a sound like howling, and remember that it was all real, real.

  • Listening to: Night in the Woods - Preview
In the years that were bright, the years Frost described as gold-before-the-green, we lived half here, in this world, and half in Lothlorien.

Not the original Lothlorien, of course. Even at eight years old, I knew that I could not reach Lothlorien on foot, at least not in a matter of minutes. Perhaps if I followed the sun westward long enough, I would find Lothlorien, and perhaps Rivendell, and perhaps even the Havens, but not in time to get back home for dinner. So, instead, we created--found--our own Lothlorien.

In the late afternoons, I would sit beneath the trees in our front yard, and Gray would join me, settling quietly beside me without rustling the grass. And I would dream. I did not know then that the trees were called mellyrn, or that the flowers were called elanor--however, I knew the colors of Lothlorien, and that was enough. I dreamed of the trees around us rising, rising, their bark turning silver and their leaves upon their spreading limbs turning golden. Around us, near and far away, the houses would fade like mist, and more trees would grow in their place. At our feet sprouted white and gold flowers, and white and silver trellises that twined up the trees and blossomed into buildings.

Then, without moving, we would rise like souls from where we sat, and walk through our dream, our Lothlorien--through the low-hanging leaves, through the shimmering air that, even in the summer, I imagined as having a faint chill.

There was no one to challenge us. We never came across any Elven guards or patrols, though if we stood still, we could hear them singing, far away. The realm was ours alone to wander, to pick flowers and climb trees and splash through its streams and laze in its blossom-filled meadows. Ours, until I heard the front door open, and my mother's voice chastising me for falling asleep in the grass again, and getting dirt all over my clothes yet again, when would I start paying attention like the rest of the girls? But back indoors, I would reach for the dream again, and the trees would break through the tiles and through the ceiling, and their limbs, together with the flowering vines, would twine around the walls and squeeze them into dust. Pictures, paintings, calendars would fall from their hangers and the grass and bushes and flowers would grow over them. Photo albums would fall from their shelves and be swept away by a river gushing through the doors. Nothing would be left but the foundations, covered in moss and leaves, and we would resume our wanderings.

We never saw guards, but we did see Galadriel once, from a distance. I only remember that her face was full of light. Then she turned away.

I do not remember why we stopped living in Lothlorien. Perhaps it was school, where each year, it became harder to wander off in dreams. Or--perhaps a simpler and, thus, more likely explanation--it became harder to wander off in dreams, no matter where we were. No matter where we went. We created other realms, but never dreamed them, and they were never Lothlorien. All our time away, I did not realize the years were passing there as well--the mellyrn withering, the elanor petals falling like leaves. The realm, abandoned, sinking into silence.

And then, years later, we returned, and breathed the dust.
[Camp NaNo, Story 14] Elapse
Oh hi.

About: A continuation of my July Camp NaNoWriMo project which went on hiatus due to familial reasons. I'm not trying for a word count--rather, I'm hoping to write thirty at-least-semi-coherent flash fictions with an at-least-semi-coherent common thread, collectively titled Cycles of Calm.

I plan on posting the more readable drafts to my account under a separate folder specifically for Camp NaNoWriMo. A few things of note: 

Bullet; BlackAll of these postings are drafts. I am allowing myself to break the golden rule of NaNo and edit my work as I go (including -gasp- deleting words), but I still consider them to be in a rough, unfinished state--as such, I am not looking for critique on my NaNo work. Hopefully, I'll be able to revisit each of my NaNo stories after the event ends and finish polishing them, in which case they will then be open to critique.

Bullet; BlackWhy am I posting these if I consider them unfinished? Motivation, partially--a log of sorts for myself, and another way to hold myself accountable if I don't keep up with my goal. I'm also posting them in hopes that someone will find the contrasts between the drafts and the polished pieces interesting.

Bullet; BlackAbout Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo

--
Bullet; BlackDay 13: Innocence
Bullet; BlackArchive for Cycles of Calm
Loading...
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore)
Unlike others, she loved insects as a little girl.

She used to steal flour from the kitchen, small pinches of if, when her mother wasn't looking, and bring it outside. Then she would sit upon the driveway, by a crack in the pavement she knew well, and watch for the black gleam of ants. The moment one appeared, she would press her fingers over it and pick it up, then roll it in it the flour, around and around, until it squirmed free.

"There he goes now, back to the anthill," she would say as it scurried away, lopsided, covered in white dust. "They're going to adore him."

"Adore?" her friend had asked her.

"He's covered with the magic powder," she told him. "It marks him as my messenger." Later, she discovered a patch of dry red soil and took to coating ants in it as well, watching their legs and antenna flail about, covered in red. Those ants were not chosen messengers, she explained, but chosen warriors--all who survived her gauntlet would return home heroes.

Her love did not end at ants. Sometimes, while walking home from the bus stop after a rain, she would see earthworms writhing on the pavement. She did not cut them in half, because she, being a clever child, knew that if she cut an earthworm in two, it would not make two new earthworms, but two halves of one dead earthworm. However, she did know that earthworms came out because they would drown if they got too wet, as she explained to him while stopping to pick up worms.

"Just like us," she said, kneeling. "They leave when their houses get flooded, and they get sick if they're too wet. So I'm going to help them." She took out a napkin from her lunchbox and wiped the worms, getting them as dry as she could.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because we're bigger," she said. "We gotta do the right thing." She finished wiping down the last worm and set them down on the sidewalk, where they wriggled placidly. "See? All better, now!"

She was most kind, however, to grasshoppers, and loved to nurse them. She became a master at catching them, closing a fist over them as they rested in the grass and pinching them between her thumb and forefinger as they tried to wiggle out. The she would sit and pull blades of grass from the lawn, and push the ends into their mouths, and watch them chew. She was feeding them, she told him, because they were her children.

Then they would kick her, and without a moment's hesitation, she would pull their hind legs off because, she said, children weren't supposed to kick their mothers, or run away from them.

"That looks painful," he said to her as she laid the detached legs down beside her. The grasshopper in her hand was squirming, remaining legs wiggling. Its body heaved in and out.

"He'll get over it," she said. "And he can grow new ones." The grasshopper was squirming less and less. "See? He's already calming down." She picked up one of the legs and pushed the end of it into the grasshopper's mouth. It chewed.

"You're feeding it its own legs."

"They need meat to grow," she said. "He can't be picky, and besides, I'm the mom." The grasshopper continued chewing, its mouthparts jerking. "Do you want to be the dad?"

"I will pass," he said as he sat down next to her.

Later, she made a bed for it out of grass and an acorn shell. Before she went inside, she laid the grasshopper upon it, gently. "Grow strong," she told it. It wiggled its four legs in response.

"I'm sure it will," he said.

Then they went inside for dinner.
[Camp NaNo, Story 13] Innocence
Mature content, because children do the darndest things to bugs. This is relevant, by the way.

Didn't finish the challenge thanks to family... problems, but I will try to finish the project. (Hence the change from "Day" to "Story.")

About: For my Camp NaNoWriMo project this month, I'm not trying for a word count--rather, I'm hoping to write thirty at-least-semi-coherent flash fictions with an at-least-semi-coherent common thread, collectively titled Cycles of Calm.

I plan on posting the more readable drafts to my account under a separate folder specifically for Camp NaNoWriMo. A few things of note: 

Bullet; BlackAll of these postings are drafts. I am allowing myself to break the golden rule of NaNo and edit my work as I go (including -gasp- deleting words), but I still consider them to be in a rough, unfinished state--as such, I am not looking for critique on my NaNo work. Hopefully, I'll be able to revisit each of my NaNo stories after the event ends and finish polishing them, in which case they will then be open to critique.

Bullet; BlackWhy am I posting these if I consider them unfinished? Motivation, partially--a log of sorts for myself, and another way to hold myself accountable if I don't keep up with my goal. I'm also posting them in hopes that someone will find the contrasts between the drafts and the polished pieces interesting.

Bullet; BlackAbout Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo

--
Bullet; BlackDay 12: Children
Bullet; BlackArchive for Cycles of Calm
Loading...
In between dissecting mice, playing with antibiotic-resistant bacteria, writing up scientific surveys, and doing people's math quizzes, I haven't had much time or energy... and as you've probably deduced, that along with family issues led to me falling majorly behind on NaNo. I'm 99.99% not going to make it, but I will definitely finish all thirty stories--I've got a number handwritten already, but haven't been able to type them. Will try to get back to a regular update schedule by the end of work (sometime next week) at the latest.
  • Listening to: Night in the Woods - Preview
I debated myself on whether this was something worth posting to dA, and eventually decided that I would just post it as a journal rather than a deviation. Here is an essay of sorts written very recently for English 311 (aka Exposition), as part of an assignment on meaning via description--some of you may note parallels between this piece and the most recent Cycles of Calm entry, for which this essay was a good warm-up.

---

-The Winding Way-

Fairyland is real. I know this because, as a child, I made regular trips into that country during the summer. My family lived on the border between here and there, in a neighborhood of the sort favored by poets and new families: a small neighborhood, where everyone left cookie baskets on each other’s doorsteps at Christmas, and where, during Easter, we would spot deer watching us from the fringes as we gathered eggs, waiting for us to finish so that they could get back to the business of eating the best seedlings in our garden.

As expected, I spent much of my time outdoors as a child, as this was before the Internet became more than a word (or the place where my brother spent all his time, for reasons I would later understand all too well) to me. At first, I spent my time building miniature grass forts and tying dandelion rings in the front yard, but my imagination soon outgrew our lawn, and—due to it being a safe neighborhood—I was permitted to head up the hill to play with a neighbor’s golden retriever. She was too old and sagely for my antics, though, and soon I grew bored again, and began to wander ever further from my house.

To the north of the neighborhood lay woods, and a trail surrounded by tall grass, which the adults forbade the children of the neighborhood to enter alone on account of the wild animals that lived there. We could take the path, though, under the supervision of an adult or one of the older children. I made a friend (who I still remember vividly) who counted as something in between, either a young adult or an older-older child. In either case, he was qualified to accompany me along the path in the late summer afternoons, to walk with me until the sky deepened and the first fireflies began to glow.

How far along the path we walked varied per day, and there was plenty of path to walk. The first part of the path wound, riverlike, through abandoned fields, through seed-heavy grasses that swayed above my head. Passing by, we would hear the barking, chirruping, or squawking of the animals that dwelt behind the grass. We never stopped in the first section of the path—instead, we would amble onwards to where the forest began, to where the old, old mulberry trees grew. They belonged to no one, and so we were free to pick mulberries and eat them under the trees while listening to the animals. My friend knew much about the animals who lived there—which voice belonged to whom, what food each of them liked—and often, we would stop there, and he would tell me their names.

Sometimes, though, we would walk onward, leaving the fields behind and venturing deeper into the pleasant shade of the forest. The forest itself was half-wild, but friendly, and though its vines patterned the path, its trees never completely blocked out the sky. Here, the barking and squawking gave way to chirping and trilling, and my friend would pause, head cocked, to listen for and name this or that bird. Each time, he would mourn that I could not see them. He brought along an Audubon squeaker, and kissed the edge of his little finger—a tactic that he swore worked everywhere else, despite how ridiculous he looked—but no birds answered the call. Only once did we spot one, a tiny, loud-voiced swallow with a brilliant red chest and throat, who flew off shortly afterwards.

Many clearings dappled the woods towards their end, and here and there we could glimpse an aged bench or a leaf-covered slide. Further along the path laid a meadow with a small barn and a wheelbarrow out front, both of which were always, I remember, in excellent shape. We never saw the family to which they must have belonged, and so when we walked along the path and saw the wheelbarrow resting in a different spot each time, I imagined that it had a life of its own. My friend said nothing to disprove this. Instead, as the trees gave way to homely gardens and mossy ponds, we talked about more mundane things—my classmates, my teachers, the oppressively short recesses, the onset of that academic tax called homework.

He would listen patiently to all I had to say, smiling—enough to encourage, never enough to patronize. “I think you’re doing great,” he would say afterwards. “Keep it up—you really are doing better than you think.” They were words I always took for granted, back in those days. Further ahead, the path crested upwards, almost too slowly to notice, and then we would find ourselves atop a hill, watching the path drop away and snake though the meadows. In the distance, on the other end, there sprawled the darkly glinting roofs of another neighborhood. Here was where we always stopped, sometimes to take in the view, always to eventually turn back and head back down the path, back through the woods, back through the fields to our neighborhood. There was no reason for us to go further.

I spent two summers visiting that path before my father found a job at a major teaching hospital. Then we moved, my family and I, and for years I was shut up in a gated neighborhood where, both within and outside its walls for miles beyond, the trees grew only in neat rows and fountains dotted the lakes rather than fish.

One day, when I am free to buy flights of my own, I may return to my Fairyland and walk along the path again, seeing what has or has not changed. The mulberry trees, I am certain, will still be there, still bearing their best fruit on the branches that are too high for me to reach on my own. The neighborhood that I watched from the hill, too, will still stand—I cannot speak for the wheelbarrow. The fields may be ever more overgrown, or their wildness may have been trimmed back. But they will still be there, creaking in the wind.

But there are others I am not so certain about. My memories may have been distorted by time, as I remember a raccoon we saw with jagged black stripes, and frogs that wore lilypads for hats. I remember butterflies larger than I have ever seen elsewhere, and a creature with fur—hair?—as green as a lime, that dove back into the grass as we passed by. I do not even know if I remember my friend correctly, or even if I am remembering him at all—if I am not imagining him instead. For when I remember him, I remember him—a young man—with silver hair.

It is all real to me, though. It is as real as the house I lived in after we moved away from that neighborhood—real as the gold-flecked black marble countertops, real as the elaborate, twisted, wrought-iron railings, real as the enormous picture windows flanking the living room, from which I would sometimes hear a thud and through which I would see a bird lying in the grass with a broken neck. It is as real as the unlit closet I would, late at night, find my mother crying in, sometimes because of my father, sometimes because of me. It is all real, necessarily so.

And it will continue to be real, even if—when—I return. I do not expect to see raccoons with spiky fur, or butterflies larger than my hand. I do not know if I will see my friend, though I will stand under the mulberry trees and try to remember all that he told me. I will stand there, between the forest and the fields or upon a hill, listening to a sound like howling, and remember that it was all real, real.

  • Listening to: Night in the Woods - Preview

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Falareste's Profile Picture
Falareste
Falah Liang
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
:bulletyellow:
the sun rises in an ecstasy of brightness,
like a lion shaking its mane, like a chrysanthemum
discovering itself

-From Professor Berkowitz Stands on the Threshold by Theodora Goss
-- ~ --

Also known as
Falunel - Tales Forum (RIP)
Silver Halcyon - NaNoWriMo
Falunel.7645 - Guild Wars 2
PM me for my Skype.

My WordPress literature blog - currently redundant if you follow me on dA

I identify as :bulletpurple::bulletwhite::bulletgreen:Genderfluid
and :bulletblack::bulletwhite::bulletpurple:Demisexual

I have a tulpa (non-pony) who goes by the nickname "Gray".
About tulpas - About Gray

Old account --> :iconhalcyonadvent: :iconfalunel: <-- Non-lit account

Personal guidelines for writing poetry
Show, don't tell.
Say more with fewer words.
To write well, read more.
Learn from everything, and keep learning.


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:iconlitwick-kindly:
Litwick-Kindly Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014
Keep Going! Hang in there! You're an exceptionally talented writer and I believe you can achieve your nanowrimo goal. I'm excited to see what you come up with
Reply
:iconamour-raven:
amour-raven Featured By Owner May 7, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the fav on seasoned! :heart:
Reply
:iconsserenita:
Sserenita Featured By Owner May 6, 2014  Professional General Artist
Hi, its me again! :D

Welcome to
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Reply
:iconfalareste:
Falareste Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Student Writer
Hallo, stranger!

Glad to be aboard. :)
Reply
:iconsserenita:
Sserenita Featured By Owner May 6, 2014  Professional General Artist
Welcome to The-Feature-Showcase! Be sure to review our rules and group info to make the most of our group. If you have any questions or need assistance, feel free to let me or any other administrator know! 
Reply
:iconfalareste:
Falareste Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks! :happybounce:
Reply
:iconcampbe:
Campbe Featured By Owner May 5, 2014  Student Writer
Hoy! Thanks a lot for reading my poetry - I'm glad you liked it. :]
Reply
:iconsimplysilent:
SimplySilent Featured By Owner May 4, 2014
Thank you for the points. They'll be put to good use. :aww:
Reply
:iconfalareste:
Falareste Featured By Owner May 5, 2014  Student Writer
It was my pleasure! :heart:
Reply
:icondrippingwords:
DrippingWords Featured By Owner Apr 27, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the watch! :heart:
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