Remember Remember the 5th of December

something really nice happened yesterday and they were on the two different ends of the spectrum of nice, and the contrast was poem-worthy - as per.

The blue door damned slays shut behind us,

We implode, a volcanic uproar of spit and stew,

A chorus of gratitude, and mine is lost in theirs.

On one side, we were strong, able, fighting free;

And here the mania uncurls, little pieces

Of throat inside us all.

We laugh. We laugh, we laugh, we laugh and

We laugh, for all we can do, for all we know how to express-

We laugh. 

Beginning whence humanity came unravelled

In sympathetic conversions of opinion, intellect,

Something worth of value. 

Of hope, of Death, of loss, of salvation.  

And the bottled man tells us his intimacies,

We are his most trusted, we are the chosen few.

I am part, in part, of something greater than I

Taking credit and lacking in the exchange,

I say thank you and think I need offer more.

Universal memories that haven't occurred yet,

Some may call them future, hopes and dreams--

We gave them all up in our mournful dome of 

Truth. "I have to believe there is hope,"

And I really mean it. But I mean more, too,

And I am afraid my vocality has been shrewd to my anxieties.

I like to discuss poetry with you,

We are a collective, defined as one, separated,

Bar-none, refused to admit the crowd

I do not like them, not really,

Not to stereotype, O no--

Have you seen the level of discussion, do you understand?

I understand. I understand your certificate,

Your passion, and your sacrifice of Time, 

Cold nights, winter shell, they drag us all to Hell.

I am glad the academia closed after an hour

And the next was spent in this and that,

And we, once prepared to leave, leant against the wall

Of not-letting-go. It means a lot to us, too,

Being literary and dreamy and 

Inquisitive and Einstein, though the respective titles

Are separate to us each, O can you guess?

I set a wishing spell upon my notes,

Singing loud and wishing they were as such, tiger baring teeth. 

Cub, baby cub, and then it was so

You wished to give us something worth, that what else was

A disservice, and you set us free, establishment cause.

The day was burning yellow, bare, kind and open--

And a hailing storm transpired across of me,

A sorry predicament to the sorry public.

We were giddy and glad with what was gifted to us,

Words, a movement, a purpose -- the blue damned door,

Sufficiently drenched in the secrets of it's peers,

Said thank you and we left. And when that world

Was swallowed right up by another more tranquil

Killer whale mouth, we erupted like suction,

Raw red meat and folded like pleats,

Mania sucking away at us, lovers at our breast,

We laughed for knowledge, 

Squeaked like an iron rust for what we were given,

Somehow, a poet cannot depict

The most bizarre brilliances the human function permits.

We laughed, laughed, laughed, laughed,

Twizzlers, spinning soon, coughing flames in the sky,

A hooded promise, a clown's hysteria weaponed 

And we didn't contain it, jar it, or turn it on over itself,

And I was humanely grateful for the companionship of

A thousand murderous laughs, as innocent as possible,

In the bodies of four teenage girls, all spluttering

Different things, laughing for themselves, being selfish

As hell, I think if I ever want to die again,

I will remember how laughing with them 

Brought me far from my poverty, I will remember

How the laughter came after the lesson.

I will be grateful that I had the two, side by side,

And equidistant from this realisation,

A truth, and an evaluation of truth: learned and laughed.

What a majestic way to submit the aforementioned

Information: to spew it out, inhumanely, humanely,

And to screech it, running, arms wide like 

Solar birds of the sky, the most alive one could

Ever be, mortal bounds open their steel gates for seconds at a time,

And lets us into it's confinement: wisdom, wisdom, and life,

                                                                                Life.

There are people that think two-dimensionally,

These are the people who can draw what is in front of them

More eloquently and fluently than the original they are moulding from.

Then, there are people who's brains think in 3D--

Who cannot muster up a replica from the calcium harnesses of their throat,

Who need a blank canvas

These people cannot be clones,

Cannot be an indelible output to a curse,

They will damn themselves

Thank you very much

Author's Note

i don't think i particularly need anyone to love this -- this would generally be something i wrote to my diary, but i did it here. so it's more truthful. and because i feel like i owe you people one of the gladdest moments of my life -- i'll never know why.

Reviews

[Christoph]

Saying that somebody thinks in two dimensions carries heavy negative connotations for me, and I don't think that's what you meant to have come across. I originally read the ending of this as saying that some types of artists are worthless, but there is a superior caste you are thankful for.

So I got stuck on the 2D/3D thing for a minute, but looking past it and reading the whole thing over again, this is a celebration of art and inspiration and I like it very well for that.

[Amorette Duvannes]

Gosh, no. I'd hate for anyone to think that that was my intention. Honestly, the criteria I was implying isn't even my own. My Art teacher was the one who told me that talented students aren't the ones who can replicate what they see -- the talented ones are those who can amplify what they don't see. And there's more to Art than just being able to beautifully refine and replicate the crevasses, the creases, the edges... Art can be manipulation, but if you're taking things from Earth and just copying them up exactly as you found them - is it really your art?

Honestly, you saw more in it than I did. It's really just honestly about something that happened to me and provoked a lot of thought -- but I'm glad there was more to it than just the finalisation of truth that I had exhibited.

[Raymond Federle]

Poetry as an art, like painting or music is mostly left up to the personal interpretation of the reader. I think whatever a person reads, I will see it differently than you and you will see it differently than others. To me it's all good in the end. Granted some pieces stand out more than others, for me it's mostly because something in them provokes an emotional response. But that is what art is. That the watchers and the readers and the listeners take away something with them. All said and done an excellent poem full of emotion and feeling! Well done. :)

[Amorette Duvannes]

Exactly -- there is no answer, only people are their experiences. Interpretation is purely what we have seen and done in our lives and how this formulates how we see the experiences of others. Some people will not understand poems of Death, because they have never understood Death. Others will understand it perfectly, like a friend -- because they have understood it in the realities.

Honestly, as I have commented below -- the portrayal I wanted to adopt with this poem, was just one of my life. But I am so grateful, and indebted to the people who have read this and had their own thoughts. It is the one of the most singularly beautiful things in all of humanity, and that something I have made would be the subject of such enticement is a flattery and an unbelievable honour. I am not quite used to the things people have to say - but I appreciate them very much.