Hundreds of books
Perched on shelves
Beginning to crust
The tales they tell
To those who read,
Its the ultimate honour
For a writer, the creed
Is to live in dolour
To the books, its the same
Nothing to lose; nothing to get
Dont know from where they came
Blood and sweat
Are we all just
An accumulation of words?
How can we guarantee
That each will be heard?
Does it matter, then?
Or will it ever?
Or how many hours we spent
Piecing them together?












Comments
<3
(P.S. I wish I could be more specific/coherent but I'm currently exhausted and feverish, sorry. I'll try again later...*passes out*)
--
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
-Will Durant
Though it rhymes loosely, the meter in this poem is indicative of a free verse mentality, especially after we hit the third paragraph (and this shit takes OFF 8D). The weight of the words as they relate to their meanings seems to be emphasized instead of merely the size or sound. So that you have a paragraph like the third, in which there is an almost unbalanced meter, but it doesn't feel jerky because the shorter, more provocative line ("Blood and Sweat.") Holds the same mental significance to the reader as the longest, but less-meaningful-on-it's-own; "Dont know from where they came."
Don't get me wrong, I love the first two paragraphs, but for a different reason. This poem seems to be split in half to me. The first two sections give a story almost, a set-up, a mood, and are rather formulaic in style (though this almost seems a device to add to the irony of the piece...read on for more on that). The third section is a cliff almost; you suddenly switch meters, switch moods, appear to switch your intent and POV altogether, but still manage to blend with the rest of the piece. It almost looks like beatnik spoken work, the third ('Cept rhyming
On the whole, this path gives the poem an initial momentum like that of a person walking steady and straight . when suddenly, theyre hit with a strong current of wind (The wind of conscientious questioning, lets call it!) THEN they are pushed by the wind to run faster, and in a completely new direction which takes them to a new, frightening, but ultimately beautiful place.
Besides the wind, YOU take ideas on interesting turns. As I said before, there's almost a sense of irony at the end when you seem to point out the futility in writing, when you yourself are writing something to point it out. It might be intentional (a little tongue in cheek) but wither way, it brings out a smirk. But then, in creating a poem through the piecing of words and employment of sophisticated poetic techniques that have meaning, volume and impression upon a reader; might you be contradicting yourself in that light?
Anyway, you can tell youre a thinker, and that you love words, but you are not below the clarity of mind to question them and their necessity, their importance. And when you come to the conclusion that they ARE important, you carefully consider which ones are MORE important, even if subconsciously. This is something what all writers must do if they wish to be understood, poignant and evolutionary in their work. Something at which I fail but you undeniably succeed. In my eyes anyway.
So ends my overtired ramblings.
*dies*
--
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
-Will Durant
What do you mean by that bit?
--
[link]
This is not a cheap ploy. This is not a cheap ploy. Just keep telling yourself that.
Good expansion?
--
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
-Will Durant
--
[link]
This is not a cheap ploy. This is not a cheap ploy. Just keep telling yourself that.
--
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
-Will Durant
--
[link]
This is not a cheap ploy. This is not a cheap ploy. Just keep telling yourself that.
--
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
-Will Durant
--
[link]
This is not a cheap ploy. This is not a cheap ploy. Just keep telling yourself that.
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