A poet's portrayal (16/1/2013)

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Post by Horizon on Wed Jan 16, 2013 9:07 pm

A poet's portrayal - 18/1/2013

Winter, 1869. I'd been walking astray the streets of Vienna, in my deliberate rush towards the library of Lukas.
A typical Austrian time, it'd been snowing from all the cardinal points, freezing even the bravest of hearts who dared stand in its way.
With sluggish, exhausting steps, I left myself guided by instincts through the unforgiving blizzard. Eventually, after going through a terrific process of entropy and disorientation, I'd finally reached the target.
I was now opening the doors of the library with an incomprehensible, unmistakable fury, purifying myself from all the snowflakes who had collided with my body.
The valet had already taken care of my overcoat, cautiously placing it in a peg's neck. Afterwards, he gently asked me if I wanted to leave my gloves and hat as well. As a response, I slowly raised two fingers, nearly shaking them, as a sign of negation.
Then follow the necessary salutations; gathering our thoughts and cleansing our minds, me and Lukas shook hands, firmly, not too soft and not for long; a typical way of greeting a respectable Viennese librarian, with an important state.
Samael, the valet, had met me in a somewhat precarious way.
I started advancing through the gigantic bookshelves, seeking a specific piece of british literature belonging to Howard Pyle. Looking at the seemingly unending walls now and then, I'd been perceiving the leather covers of Vietnamese war-themed books; then I would stand lost in the abyss, having a lapse moment... and then, I'd seen him. He was standing tall, brilliantly, in his grand youth, like an angelic presence amidst demons, having literal discernments with himself. He seemed unimpaired by time, as his limpid facial traits, crystal clear as a mountain river, shone. His eternally swift and mind-penetrating eyes were hunting the haughty titles of his own works. Fearless, the poet was in a never-ending duel against the letters, overcoming them, the letters that would soon become immortalized on plain paper.

A letter from home - 16/1/2013

Today is the twentieth day of March.
I have bought apples, canned food
And bread. I did not queue long.
An old woman died in the queue, praying;
Perhaps praying for death.
How are you? We shall meet soon, I am sure.

I lay on the beach,
The letter out of sight.
The deep green wave startled me,
Touching my feet.
We shall meet soon:
I am a man without home,
And windows and doors have no memory.

How to leave and return,
When my eyes are no longer
Filled with the silence of stars;
When my heart is no longer immune
To the dark blossoms I harvest?
Who and why: questions I have worn as
My birthright. I can scent a wind
Far away, and wind-scattered death.

Today is the twentieth day of March.
I promise we shall meet again
Soon. Then I shall rise and depart,
Sit atop a hillock and look on,
As friends' letters rise
>From the valley of death
And tumble about me on the beach.
Alone in the orchard

I had been there. I remembered everything.
Tall, awkwardly shaped apple trees watching me from above; blades of frail grass viciously, profoundly shrieking in pain as my very feet strongly stepped upon them. Unknown, shrouded in mistful thoughts, the sky had been dark that day; a touch of black diamonds amidst the lively blue of seas, amidst the bright white of angels. Omniscient clouds abhor the beauty of a glorious morning, as meadows never stepped on liberate dreadful thoughts.
Dull, distant and flimsy shrubs closing in, inspiring fear and dramatically lowering my morale, how the sweet nectar of flowers turns into vile poison.
I was alone.
Tranquil, eerie lands had been awaiting my arrival. A lonely soul, vanishing like the smoke of a cigarette, dwelling amongst never ending fields of sorrow and remorse.
The birds, oh! the birds! Such fragile, yet valliant little creatures, endlessly chirping towards the sun, seeking for absolute harmony and peace.
Blunt, haughty, unwavering and wicked, an abnormally huge walnut had been raising before my eyes. Hideous tendrils blasting off its thick branches, terribly piercing my half-drained sanity.
It had unrooted. With uncountable hordes of bloodsuckers, the evil walnut was coming for me.
A split second of hesitation and lack of alert, I had tripped over a damned knot. I was hopeless.
Realising what would happen, I closed my eyes in desperation, feeling cold and lost. I knew I'd perish.
Saying one final prayer, I'd been waiting for my end. It had to come sooner or later.
And then... an overwhelming, gloomy silence struck me. Shards of the past were flashing in my mind.
I had my eyes wide open. I was home. The vision was over.

House of sparks

Loathsome. Unforgiving. Eternally revengeful. Unscrupulous - hallmarks humanity would never ever mention again. The loveliness of the spring daybreak when one walks in peace had now vanished.
It's undoubtedly loyal that God himself left a bane upon the house of sparks which evil had set no foot on. It was written in the sky, for better for worse knew the true story.

ACT I - Who is pounding on my door?

I was sleeping shamelessly well past the 10th clock. Veils were set aside the window.
Light was impaling my eyes like I had commited a crime and had to pay for it. It was grievous.
I woke up. Slowly rising from my bed, I started rubbing my eyes. I was fatigued.
"Vertiginous dreams..." I said to myself while drowsing.
It felt like I was a foreigner in my own house. My feet were begging me to head towards the bathroom.
But why was that?
I turned and looked around. Mattress stained with blood. Doors wide open. Cracked walls.
Something was out of the ordinary.
Shortly afterwards, a bright humming light was gently shining upon the floor, forming a cross-shaped shadow.
I instantly felt attracted, intrigued, amazed by the light. It looked like it had an entire universe inside it, with never-before seen creatures dwelling it. Dark, mystic and privy.
Yet it was that part of me that was aware of it; I shouldn't have gone towards it.
I was approaching with sensibility. Feet are shaking, hands are spastic, head is dull. Long-forgotten thoughts roaming through my mind.
"What if the shade will gobble me?" I thought.
Thus there was no way I could have known about it; it was inciting me regardless.
Suddenly, a loud noise coming from the door's way awoke me.
"Open the door!" the voice boomed.

Last edited by Horizon on Sat Jan 19, 2013 2:59 pm; edited 2 times in total

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Post by Towelie on Wed Jan 16, 2013 9:27 pm

I really admire people who make topics in the litterature section. I suck at writing stuff. A letter from home is really nice. Good job, lad.

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Post by Horizon on Fri Jan 18, 2013 9:15 pm

Thank you!
Updated with "A poet's portrayal"

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Post by Slipstream on Sun Jan 20, 2013 2:41 am

I love your writing. I can't really critique it, as I'm not a professional writer, nor am I very good with words beyond a high-school vocabulary. All I can say with certainty is that I adore your way with words. Keep on writing, man, I love your work.

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