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I know. One more and I swear that is it.

 

Seeing shadows

seeing faces in the stone

A million miles away from home,

in the dark trees as I walk blind,

In the held breath between shadows

In front

waiting to stretch out and see what hides behind.

like two faces stony stark in need

At the midpoint where no one concedes.

What is to stop me from the road

Bar my feet

Any condition remedied by an

occasional seat.

Will these accumulated aches and pains

Come back to haunt

When there is no separation between the voices and me.

I mean, what is the difference?

dropping off the edge of crazy

Or falling in the divide between my mind in the south and heart in the north

Attached by a string yanked back and forth.

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So, I have been working on and off on a screenplay. Then I realized it was pretentious, idiotic garbage. Nevertheless, I have kept working on multiple different scripts for movie/play ideas. It's a nice productive time killer, but I don't think I've ever finished any writing project longer than twenty pages. The previously mentioned pretentious garbage was forty pages long before I killed it. May resurrect it but change multiple things.

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Oh boy, I just remembered I did a Muse acrostic... forcedly.

 

Aside that, I might not be a sucessful poem writer (not to mention English poems), but somewhat I made a few nice poems about stuff and 2 of them ended up in an almanach of young writers from my city's region in 2008 and this is the farthest I'll ever get in a book for someone to read.

 

Now I'm making up different stories about people living and people doing things that can't be done real, for example, wishing that only one room was your entire house or whatever, and trying to take it away with construction vehicles and minimizing it and putting it in your pocket (which turns out to be a stolen room from one of your best friends, a case of envy that's complete drastic). But I feel like I want to create everything I want, and sooner or later, once I'm a text translator or something, I might as well feel like translating my little made up stories to share them with you, guys. The one's I mentioned concept I've done 5 years ago (when I was 10-11) and it was finished, while I'm making up a new story about a murder scene that might sound not really that much of a crime scene at first (imagine you listened to a creepy song at 4 am and it makes your head hurt the following hours of the same day) but... yeah... it is just based off a song I really like, and I scrobbled it 12492 times on last.fm, and I fictioned it the reason the story's person felt like murdering, just because the song is insane. Not to mention it featured on How to Get Away with Murder (haha, murder).

 

Spoilers, but if I don't feel like translating my creations from my mothertongue to English, then I guess you'll never hear anything of it again.

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Hi. I'm new to this thread. I didn't want to post until I had time/energy to read what others were posting so I'll do that from now onward.

 

I've been writing poetry for about 18 years and had a lot published. I now have a Wordpress blog where I have started to post my poems. Not all of them are there yet but there are quite a lot. There are more in the 'archive' section.:)

 

https://eleanordentpoetry.wordpress.com/

 

Here is what I consider to be one of my best, to give you an example. I do write short, light-hearted poetry as well.

 

Aslan’s Shoe*

 

I found him, finally, hours after the end of it

Aslan’s brother. Dead. One I could weep for.

Then my brother. I found my brother

dead. Still I hoped, oh God, forgive me,

I hoped I’d find the last one dead as well

to stop the gnawing craving in my belly.

I found Aslan’s brother, Aslan’s father,

but only Aslan’s shoe. New, it was.

His mother and his father

had bought new shoes on Wednesday

so that Aslan and his brother could be proud

the first day of school. He loved the shiny shoes

almost as much as he loved the box they came in.

Their values are not ours. Shoes are shoes, but boxes

are a world of possibilities, a casket

for treasures, a home for living creatures,

a house for the men they plan to become.

I would buy him a box, my Aslan,

a casket for my treasure, wrapped in velvet

for my living love, my Aslan, for my little man

but all I can find of Aslan is Aslan’s shoe.

 

 

 

*Three days after the Beslan school massacre which took place on Friday,

September 3, 2004, BBC Radio 2’s Jeremy Vine spoke of a man who was trying to find the body of his nephew, Aslan. Vine said: ‘He’s found Aslan’s brother, he’s found Aslan’s father, but all he can find of Aslan is Aslan’s shoe.’

 

First published in 'iota'

Edited by maturefan

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