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Peter.
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February 28, 2018 at 7:35 am #195209
LucasParticipantHello, I have posted on these forums before, and find the advice to be very helpful and useful. I am slowly working on building a better relationship with myself (my therapist said that I was mentally abusive to myself), but in the meantime, I have decided to channel some of my despair into words and poetry. I am considering submitting my work to a literary magazine, but I worry that it will not be good enough. If possible, I would like an honest critique on what I have. Thank you.
The Graveyard of Stars
Oh, you luminescent voyageur on the horizon of a turquoise sea?
Who is it that you are? Where is it that you will be?
Do you fade as if a mirage on the precipice of an oasis, or do you glimmer as the light of a traveler lost along the path of the night sky?
But perhaps you do none of this at all and are instead taken to an eternal graveyard where death’s dream kingdom awaits?
A place that knows no music but the lyre of sincere melancholy?
A place as icy and cold as the crest of new-fallen snow on a winter’s day?
A place where the pilgrims of the night sky gather in mourning at the passing of the radiant sun?
But where shall such a place be? To whose domain do you establish yourself by?
The graveyard of stars, my dearly beloved, is found in the eyes of those who have lost your brilliance in the enormity of a dark universe, and for whom the stars may never shine so brightly again.
February 28, 2018 at 7:46 am #195211LucasParticipantAnd one more:
The Door to Dreams
Somewhere along the specter of an ethereal plain lies a door to dreams of things of yet to unfold, to tales of stories that have yet to be told, a spirit searches longingly for the place it calls home.
“Oh, why must I suffer to live a life in such pain”, the spirit says. “I know that I can indeed be selfish and vain, but to live such a life is no life at all when the door to dreams lies just beyond a wall.”
A wall that is more than a centimeter deep that lies between the state of restfulness and sleep and causes the spirit of my eternal soul to weep.
But this wall is not a wall at all. It is me.. and all.
Since all that exists will fall, and all that there is is me, I wonder along this winding road, this contorted path just where I am meant to be?
I cannot see for I am blind, I cannot hear for I am deaf, but the only thing I know for certain is death.
It comes to me in the night, and causes my heart great fright, but the scream of my tethered spirit is heard in vain, for the only thing that I am is a name.
A name that carries with it this weight of great shame. For in the end, I am only a lonely spirit trapped in this vessel called a brain.
The cries of the soul are heard on deft ears, the dreams of dreamers are felt in tears.
Of dreams that may not nor ever will be, of things that I may not nor ever will see. I lie awake in fear of who I might be when I awake from the dreams of things that cannot nor ever will be.
February 28, 2018 at 7:55 am #195215LucasParticipantAnd another one:
The Door to Dreams
Somewhere along the specter of an ethereal plain lies a door to dreams of things of yet to unfold, to tales of stories yet to be told, a spirit searches longingly for the place it calls home.
“Oh, why must I suffer to live a life in such pain”, the spirit cries. “I know that I can indeed be selfish and vain, but to live such a life is no life all all when the door to dreams lies just beyond a wall.”
A wall that is more than a centimeter deep, that lies between the state of restfulness and sleep, and causes the spirit of my eternal soul to weep.
The wall is not a wall at all, but is rather me and all.
Since all that exists will fall and all that there is is me, I wonder along this winding road, this contorted path, just who it is that I am meant to be?
I cannot see for I am blind, I cannot hear for I am deaf, but the only thing I know for certain is death.
It comes to me in the night, which causes my heart great fright, but the scream of my tethered spirit is heard in vain, for the only thing that I am is a name.
A name that carries with it this weight of great shame. For in the end, I remain a lonely spirit trapped in this vessel called a brain.
The cries of the soul are heard on deft ears, the dreams of dreamers are felt in tears.
Of dreams that may not nor ever will be, of things that I may not nor ever will see, I lie awake in fear of who I might be, when I awake from the dreams of things that cannot nor ever will be.
February 28, 2018 at 7:56 am #195217LucasParticipantSorry, I posted it twice.
February 28, 2018 at 10:34 am #195271
AnonymousGuestDear Lucas:
This is my input reading your poems:
Poem #1, The Graveyard of Stars
I like the images of turquoise sea, glimmer of light, night sky, icy and cold, snowy winter day. The thought of a starry sky being a graveyard, an eternal graveyard, that is original, never heard or read that before. Your poem brings a memory to me, that of looking up to the starry sky and praying to one of them, praying for safety. I picked one star one night, another on another night. But not a single star made my wish come true. In a way, those stars were more like a graveyard for me, thinking back, after reading your poem, than the “when you wish upon a star” theme of Disneyland that oh, how I wished they would be.
Poem #2, The Door to Dreams
Beautiful is my first thought as I read your first two lines. It is very meaningful to me (reading the second part). It reminds me of a post I just made on the website, a little while ago. I wrote there, even if we believe that we deserve to suffer (for being “selfish and vain”, you wrote), we still don’t want to suffer. We keep wanting, needing to feel good, to open that “door to dreams”- beautifully stated, to my ears and eyes. “This wall is not a wall at all. It is me.. and all”- excellent, says I, excellent indeed.
And it gets better: “Since all that exists will fall”- true, so very true.
“the scream of my tethered spirit is heard in vain”- brings me back to your first poem, praying for the stars. Those prayers, however mute, were the screams of my tethered soul (soul not literally, for me), unheard, or maybe my screams were lost in all the other screams, screams of the children unheard.
I know that fright, I know that shame, a great shame. I know lonely. I know these things. And so, I believe I hear you Lucas.
I hear you.
Thank you for sharing your poems, a delight to read, an experience.
anita
March 1, 2018 at 7:19 am #195383
PeterParticipantThe Door to Dreams… hauntingly beautiful bitter sweet…
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