from the depths of a seashell
a grain of sand falls
called mature at eighteen years
all that I know of the world
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
Old FriendsThe visit happened suddenly, and to her complete nonsurprise.Old Friends by Falareste
She had been typing up a report on various South Asian butterflies when he had simply appeared in her room, as casually as if they had agreed beforehand to meet there. “Hello,” he said calmly from the doorway. “Don’t mind me.”
“Hello there,” she replied, just as casually. “You’re always welcome here.” She didn’t bother turning around, knowing that, at her age, she would no longer be able to see him. She was aware that she was far beyond the age where visitations by imaginary friends, however beloved when younger, were considered acceptable. But she was about as bothered as she was surprised.
“It’s been a while since I last visited,” she heard him say mildly as he walked around the room, just out of her sight.
“It has,” she agreed. “Sorry, I don’t think there’s another chair here.”
“It’s all righ
LostI wore your jacket until it was threadbare,Lost by beeinthebottle
my fingers worrying the hole in the front pocket
as if I could dredge you up.
ways i have been worni. mistsways i have been worn by gliitchlord
like a vapor.
a wisp about a finger
like cosmic debts.
like a drought.
the rush for everpresent
of desperate haste.
like a flood.
a tide without a valid
of a crush immense.
like the first.
a taste of infinity's
by a depth unmet.
like the vast.
the promise of intertwined
beyond history's test.
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.