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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
July 28, 2014
Volpi. by winterkate displays a mastery of language, rolling relentlessly from one powerful and fresh image to the next
Featured by ShadowedAcolyte
Literature Text
You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight –
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well springs or witch dens. Old storybook magic.
We've kept it between our gold teeth.
Still, if you don't feel it,
all spells sometimes fail.
Try the Polleria Volpi – its knives gleam like America,
cleave fat thin as tissue – no recrimination here.
Prosciutto thin as pride. Hams
sway from the ceiling. Thin chains. Sword of Damocles
a pig's bone, half-sharpened. Popped joints
wink and glint. Shiny now, devoid of flesh. I've seen myself
as such before, chopped and trussed,
turned inside-out. You recognize that stripped wing, caught short in panic,
half-extended?
There's an old man smiling
behind his glass counter. Green eyes glimmer coin-bright.
Ask him to cleave meat
sheer as shadows. Smell the air.
Chicken eyes are old iron,
scratched and worn dull. Lucca is watching you,
writing your story. Tragedy, romance, comedy?
Byzantine saints know.
Tongues painted closed.
They never tell.
Our tongues are rivers
drowning lost stories.
Paper shrivels like autumn
in dark spaces, in damp heat.
Lucca will write your story
for a time. They don't keep.
You'll eat. Feeling guilty
for your hollow teeth?
Lucca will slice us thinner
one day. All stories
end.
Still, the city watches,
blinks shut the great clocks.
Don't live in black ink.
You are the pen.
I write invisible, script out
other's tales. Lucca told me
to tell you
that you are the pen.
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight –
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well springs or witch dens. Old storybook magic.
We've kept it between our gold teeth.
Still, if you don't feel it,
all spells sometimes fail.
Try the Polleria Volpi – its knives gleam like America,
cleave fat thin as tissue – no recrimination here.
Prosciutto thin as pride. Hams
sway from the ceiling. Thin chains. Sword of Damocles
a pig's bone, half-sharpened. Popped joints
wink and glint. Shiny now, devoid of flesh. I've seen myself
as such before, chopped and trussed,
turned inside-out. You recognize that stripped wing, caught short in panic,
half-extended?
There's an old man smiling
behind his glass counter. Green eyes glimmer coin-bright.
Ask him to cleave meat
sheer as shadows. Smell the air.
Chicken eyes are old iron,
scratched and worn dull. Lucca is watching you,
writing your story. Tragedy, romance, comedy?
Byzantine saints know.
Tongues painted closed.
They never tell.
Our tongues are rivers
drowning lost stories.
Paper shrivels like autumn
in dark spaces, in damp heat.
Lucca will write your story
for a time. They don't keep.
You'll eat. Feeling guilty
for your hollow teeth?
Lucca will slice us thinner
one day. All stories
end.
Still, the city watches,
blinks shut the great clocks.
Don't live in black ink.
You are the pen.
I write invisible, script out
other's tales. Lucca told me
to tell you
that you are the pen.
Literature
a timeless ring
she wears me upon
her withered hand:
an angel's halo
with no beginning or
end
infinite.
she didn't like
metaphors
or goodbyes
but he brushed away the
drops of jupiter
twinkling on her
face,
promising to
return but it was
just a fool's
errand
and now i am
a memoir of
reminiscence;
because he is
dead but he is
not, he is
gone but he is
here, he is
a ghost
alive with
remembrance,
a memory preserved;
she wears me upon
her withered hand:
the crown of a
king lost in battle
and she
grazes me with her
lips and
trembles
because soon i
will be a
metaphor and
she will be the
goodbye.
Literature
Passing Ships
It was just like you to show up late. Honestly, it was just like you. It was the hottest day of the year so far and every green space was full of people trying to get their fix. Daylight junkies. When you live beneath grey clouds for most of your life it starts to take its toll and you take your highs where you can get them.
I was a bundle of nerves, as I always was when it came to you, picking at grass and trying to pretend that the fact you were late was totally cool. Instinct told me differently and I knew as soon as you graced me with your presence that things had changed. It was written all over your face - guilt, guilt, guilt - but I w
Literature
Earthquake Cafe
It’s hard to believe
It’s been six years since the Earthquake Café.
Since the Science Center froze our shadows on the wall.
I wonder if they’re still there.
Six years since we made people double-take,
Look crooked at us and issue back-hand compliments,
And I’d say, thanks? I think.
Since we were that pair of people.
Six years and still not comfortable
Calling it a couple, “it’s complicated”
That status on Facebook was made for us then.
Seventy-two moons since the solstice
Where you were the first
And the last
Person to ever make me blush.
You’ll have to forgive the nostalgia.
This is
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We never like to acknowledge that something has died.
-A.A., July 4th, 2012
Hopefully this'll clear up why I haven't been on as much lately
-A.A., July 4th, 2012
Hopefully this'll clear up why I haven't been on as much lately
Comments93
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Overall
Vision
Originality
Technique
Impact
The way you weaved your words together, one image after another, was breathtaking and overwhelming: I felt as if I was there, witnessing every sight through your eyes, and the way you transcribed pictures so vividly- you certainly were the pen. The cadence was stunning, every mark of punctuation flawlessly placed, and I found myself completely enamored with your diction: even when I might have struggled to place many unseen things into my head, the language was captivating and so genuine that I couldn't help stepping along your journey. Your vision for this poem was magnificent and accomplished well with application of technique that can only be described as perfect.
I don't think there is such thing as a full mark of originality within certain topics, though I must say, this is one of the best traveler's poems I have come across in that the language was superbly unique. The way you chose to personify the city was executed precisely, and each rhetorical venture you set out on reaped reward-
Now as for impact, while this poem left quite an impression, by the end of it I felt more longing than anything: these are your experiences, and while you did bring them to life, they left me craving the true face of Lucca, and while that is an impact on its own, it wasn't quite what I was looking for out of this.
Overall, this is just a gorgeous and fascinating piece of literature. Vastly enjoyed and I am glad you shared it.