/lit/ - Literature

We are all childless mothers
in this motherless world.
Filled with recombinant filters
and parsing machines,
neural bombardment
and hospital dreams.

We are all bodies of water
in this bodyless world.
Filled with the bovine
and cocktail waiters,
jailed assailants
and endless debaters.

The Goddess rises to meet them,
from the darklight tomb.
Her flowersong will
clear sail into the air,
and the weeping
will spread across the earth.
Her bluetinder tears
will reignite the cool water
in the oceans of dry salt and sand.
The wetness of her body
will invite the stone passion
of concrete and steel,
cities ripped into the sky.
Remaining is the mossypacked,
underbelly of 9 billion
men.

One day
We will all
be destroyed
And integrated back
Into the sky--
The endless equation
from which we derived.

I want to speak in
raw shimmering dream tones

see the future that is
dark and immense

let the darklight drip
into my minds eye

bathe in the pouring water
from the open palms of
a dying goddess in heat

sail through the emberhot
network ideawire

tear down into threads
the twine that i was
sewn up into before I
was a child

taste the slippery
effervescent thoughtstuff

and die in the silk
sheet web of bliss

I wish I was
a fleeting, magmatic dream
gifted by the
goddess.

I wish I was
a momentary, singular thought
united instantaneously
then gone.

I wish I was
a cold, fissureless stone
worn smooth by the
weather.

I left flower tomes for her in the sky,
radiant abysma.

Yet this universe no longer speaks to me
in feathered ellipses.

And the forest no longer welcomes me
To its dark cornered caves.

The goddess is wet with sunlight
and stretching herself out into the morning.

She receives this gift in the darkwake,
extending from my bedroom to the sky.

>>4470643
I came here to post about this. Don't forget about Nijinsky's choreography and Roerich's costumes. Together, I strongly feel it is among the best pieces of art ever created.

>>4453694
What are your thoughts on "consciousness"

In the morning, she would grab up a dried, hollowed gourd that she had crafted and head down to the river. The walk was easy, as her trail was well stamped down and soft under her feet. The edge of the river was rocky, but the rocks were all smooth and warm from the sun. She would carefully walk out, with her arms extended and flailing for every loose stone she stepped on. She would dip the gourd into the water, and then takes a deep drink from it, letting the water run down the sides of her face and down her chest.

The giant tree with the dugout had found quite a collection of oddities underneath it, that Chee had brought back from her wanderings. The dried hollow gourd of course. She kept some water in it so she could have a sip without going to the river. There was a small arrangement of unique rocks and minerals. Some were pink and cloudy, some had geometrical growths, and some were smooth and shiny. Chee's favorite was a little blue transparent rock, when held under the sun would sparkle and break apart the light. She would hold this rock up close to her eye and try to see what was causing the sparkle, but so far had found no clues.

Chee lived mostly on berries, nuts, roots, crawdads, and grains. On occasion, she would spear a fish floating in the clear shallows of the river. In the hot days, when the sun was out for a long time, food was plenty and easy to find. Chee would eat and eat until her belly was plumped out and she couldn't eat anymore. The food made her tired, so she would sleep in her cool dugout. She would wake up eventually with an urgency, and run out a ways behind her tree and squat down to make earth and water.

Towards the end of the hot days, she would head out away from the river to find a special tree. Around this time, the tree produced large sweet fruits that were a welcome compliment to her earthy diet. She had to compete with the birds for these fruits. She would regularly find their pits laying in the ground, all the sweet crispiness torn away. But the ones she did secure for herself were a welcome treat. When she bit them, the sweet juices would run along her face and make her hands sticky.

Chee was born without a name and died alone. She walked out of the woods naked like some tiny Enkidu. Her hair was coated in dirt and grease that held it close to her skull. She walked with an odd swagger, chin up and arms swinging wildly.

Chee was a patron of the woods, at home like a bird or a hog. She lived in a dugout with roots and leaves. Every day she would laugh and stamp the ground around her hole, to feel the soft earth and keep the vegetation at bay. Her dugout was situated underneath a particularly thick root from the large tree that rose above her and the other trees. She would often climb this tree. On the few occasions when she was brave enough, she could climb up high and see over top of the other trees.

It was an ocean of leaves, with mountain ranges and other discontinuities on the horizon. A gap in the canopy cut through where the river was. Chee often went to this river to swim and bathe and splash. When it was hot outside, the cold flowing water was refreshing. She always kept a distance from the slick cows snorting and lurking in the deeper parts of the river. If she got too close they would splash their heads up and down and kick up dirt, warning Chee to leave them be.

Every day, Chee would walk out along one path or another. They all splintered and dissolved eventually, though over time she had been pushing them farther and farther out. Her favorite path was one that zagged precipitously up and around a hill. For one thrilling segment, there was a sheer drop to one side. Chee always paused, and then pranced quickly across. Farther on, this path opened into a clearing full of tall grass that made Chee sneeze.

Buried at the base of these swaying stalks were red clusters of berries. Chee would rip out a cluster, and holding it by the base, suckle and munch the berry cluster. They tasted sweet and tart. Some clusters would zap her tongue with an unpalatable burst of sourness. These made her spit and spit and rub her tongue. After eating enough berries, her fingers and the skin around her lips would be stained red with dribbling berry juices. She would start her stomping and laughing, smashing down a clearing in the grass to lay on. The grass was so tall that it usually blocked the sun out.

When night came, Chee would tuck herself inside the dugout with a fresh pile of leaves she stripped off the low hanging branches around her. When the leaves dried or withered, or if she peed in her sleep, she would chuck them out of her hole and stamp them down. The sides of her dugout had become compacted and smoothed from her turning and rustling during the night. It made a comfortable little womb, safe from most things that worked the woods in the night.

The problems most new writers have, is that they don't realize that writing is a craft. Only when the craft is mastered can it become an art.

>>3953656
There's also a song that goes with it. Helps me remember.

>>3870249
You would do well to increase your reading comprehension. The point you think I'm making, is not the point I actually made.

>>3870372
I do not believe that. Ignorance of the discipline is unforgivable if you want to make serious contributions. But for those who simply want to draw from it, not add to it, it's completely unnecessary.

>>3870237
That's not for me to say what you can do. Talent is unfortunately only revealed after a great deal of hard work. I can say that if you want to write poetry that I would enjoy reading, you have a long ways to go. But there are other reasons to write poetry than to please an audience, don't forget that.

If you have any serious desire to be a decent poet, start by reading an enormous amount of poetry. There is simply no other way to develop taste.

>>3870199
I found this poem quite terrible. Much lower quality than the other one. The vast majority was inane and whiney. It sounds like the frustrated ramblings of a 14 year old. And being 14 years old, it's simply not possible to create anything worthwhile with any consistency. So don't feel bad. I will point out the good lines in the poem, of which there were a few:

>At nebula's of common worship
>Caress me. I'm a man without virginity

If you want to be better, you need to develop your taste. This requires reading extensively and reflecting on the quality of what you have read. Taste is an ability to distinguish high quality from low quality. As you develop taste, you must apply it relentlessly to your own work.

In criticizing your work, I'm simply applying the taste I have developed. Most of this poem was not high quality. But the lines I pointed out are of fairly high quality.

To be quite honest, most classic Philosophers are simply not worth reading. Unless you have an interest in tracing the historical lines of thought, don't bother. Philosophy has mostly become anemic through relentless intellectual inbreeding. Come to terms with the ideas you are interested in learning about, and pursue those ideas on their own terms. Not on the terms of academic philosophers, or worse, desperate and needy intellectuals who want to project a sense of mastery on complex subjects.

Look for modern philosophers (and scientists) whose work is in concert with science. Science is by far the superior method of acquiring knowledge. Philosophy that is in touch with science is what matters now.

>>3870141
I have no idea. I'm writing it as I go. When I think of something I'll add it on and post it ;)

>>3870187
Share what you please. I'll comment on it.

>>3870171
Don't worry so much about linking everything to something you have an experience with. It just is what it is. Take it as that.

As for pooping... that is the most crucial part of the story so far. If I don't describe her pooping I have failed.

>>3870175
Yes there is talent there. It just needs a great deal of seasoning.

>>3870179
Your ideas of intent are nonsense. I am talking about something much more fundamental. You did not have control over your work and you will not convince me that you did.

>>3870156
This is actually pretty good. There are some interesting ideas, some nice use of words, and so on. The problem, I believe, is that you're simply not generating a large enough *quantity* of good ideas. Especially in the second half of the poem, it is obvious that you run out of good ideas. In fact I'd say the only two good lines in the second column are

>But you will cease to think to be
>Examine the contents of your leaden hand

The other problem, that makes it a little obvious that you're newly molted, is when you use "poem language". The most blatant example:

>Aught for I to nullexist?

It's fine and wonderful to play with sentence structure and wording. But this sort of wording is used by poets when they don't know what they're doing and end up parodying some vague idea of Enlightenment poetry. Avoid it. The concept of "nullexist" is being wasted in this way.

There are also a few failures of taste, where a false sort of angst comes out. It's not wrong to write about angst, but make sure it's sincere. I think you can point out the spots where it is not.

>>3870138
Meaningful creation is a dialog between the spontaneity of creation, the structure of analysis, and the guidance of taste. In your piece it is all spontaneity; no structure derived from clear analysis, and frequent lapses in taste. In other words, you have no control over your own creation. You simply squirt it out and hope it means something. That's not how it works. The spontaneity of the artists you admire has been carefully nurtured under the intense light of analysis and taste. That is why it is so good, while yours falls short.

>>3870125
Yes, I read and write a lot of poetry. Your work won't be stolen. That is a juvenile fear.

The birds were on edge, and it put Chee on edge too. They would bawk and loose big caws. They would flap up and dive down restlessly. They saw, or smelled, or heard something out there. The rats and dogs sensed it too, they were scampering away from the river.

Chee walked against the gentle current of movement in the woods, towards the river. The sun was rising, though her shaded path to the river was cool and dim. The river itself was illuminated with light, stinging Chee's eyes as she emerged onto the rocky edge. With one stiff hand shielding her eyes, she down the river. A black mound was silhouetted with sunlight, and was slowly working it's way up.