FA+
Shop
210
Views
Views
1
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Poetry / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 90 x 120
File Size 140.4 kB
Report this content
More from Keno64
(''Hljóð'' = Icelandic for ''sound.'')
_________________________________________________________________
''Hljóð I''
Often I wonder whether their presence is true––
floating around the room with a movement more still than statues
carved of marble, glass, or wax
o’er my bed, beneath the chairs, or behind the container of trash
not yet thrown away.
Thou hast gone farther than myself, dearest companions––
however, at times, you seem like a band of dragons that I must slay;
the only connection between this world and the one of your own, I must say
that all of you are wonders of the mind that have often led me astray.
Yet, the truth of you and the others lie within the shell of a bell jar fogged of dew––
being viewed as something distorted by the outside eyes
that do not care for you, or do not need you;
they are so much unlike I.
But, in the time that I have since tried to glance at what’s there,
everything seems to unfold like a small paper trinket, made to where
its elementary arms can hold itself upon the shoulders of a shelf,
causing the mind feel so very undefined, a rudimentary nightmare as it is lain to which
the native tongue of one will taste as though it were always of a foreign language.
__________________________________________________________________
While it's not exactly a sonnet, per se, the best I can say about it is that I've, at the very least, tried. This rose from the geysers of my mind yesterday evening as another eruption of words, another explosion of my head.
Whatever this is, I can tell you that it's about the creatures that prowl in my mind and how I've come to befriend them. I'll be sure to explain them in depth later on, but so far, I only feel like sharing this.
Comments are welcome.
. . .
I feel so strange placing any of my works here, but quite possibly never as much as now. I could almost say that I've garnered a sort of readership here, and with every submission I am only reminded of how large I feel it is.
Within this little cranny of Internet, I've come to call it my home, a weird haven where I can shed the skin of Reality's needs and let my tongue speak the language it wants.
And, in those who have commented and read my works, I come to find something, a thing I've taken to be rather precious:
I have a sort of attention placed on me.
And I suddenly feel as though I am so infallibly lucky.
In response, I fall to my knees and could not thank all of you more.
By the grace of your words, I have been kept from becoming an ever-closing door.
_________________________________________________________________
''Hljóð I''
Often I wonder whether their presence is true––
floating around the room with a movement more still than statues
carved of marble, glass, or wax
o’er my bed, beneath the chairs, or behind the container of trash
not yet thrown away.
Thou hast gone farther than myself, dearest companions––
however, at times, you seem like a band of dragons that I must slay;
the only connection between this world and the one of your own, I must say
that all of you are wonders of the mind that have often led me astray.
Yet, the truth of you and the others lie within the shell of a bell jar fogged of dew––
being viewed as something distorted by the outside eyes
that do not care for you, or do not need you;
they are so much unlike I.
But, in the time that I have since tried to glance at what’s there,
everything seems to unfold like a small paper trinket, made to where
its elementary arms can hold itself upon the shoulders of a shelf,
causing the mind feel so very undefined, a rudimentary nightmare as it is lain to which
the native tongue of one will taste as though it were always of a foreign language.
__________________________________________________________________
While it's not exactly a sonnet, per se, the best I can say about it is that I've, at the very least, tried. This rose from the geysers of my mind yesterday evening as another eruption of words, another explosion of my head.
Whatever this is, I can tell you that it's about the creatures that prowl in my mind and how I've come to befriend them. I'll be sure to explain them in depth later on, but so far, I only feel like sharing this.
Comments are welcome.
. . .
I feel so strange placing any of my works here, but quite possibly never as much as now. I could almost say that I've garnered a sort of readership here, and with every submission I am only reminded of how large I feel it is.
Within this little cranny of Internet, I've come to call it my home, a weird haven where I can shed the skin of Reality's needs and let my tongue speak the language it wants.
And, in those who have commented and read my works, I come to find something, a thing I've taken to be rather precious:
I have a sort of attention placed on me.
And I suddenly feel as though I am so infallibly lucky.
In response, I fall to my knees and could not thank all of you more.
By the grace of your words, I have been kept from becoming an ever-closing door.
Yours,KenoCategory Poetry / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 90 x 120px
File Size 140.4 kB
Its was torture reading that... *gasp for air* but it was so worth it. You are really really good at poems if only for their deep meanings. To be honest I barely understand parts of it, but it adds to its charm for me.
I feel the same way. I don't really express it a lot, but it is something special to know that someone reads and perhaps even likes what you do. I felt my eyes being close to tears when I read your comment. If anything, you inspire me. To get the measure of my words, I am rarely inspired by anyone. Nor do I really admire anyone. But you... There is just something... Inspiring and worthy of admiration.
I feel the same way. I don't really express it a lot, but it is something special to know that someone reads and perhaps even likes what you do. I felt my eyes being close to tears when I read your comment. If anything, you inspire me. To get the measure of my words, I am rarely inspired by anyone. Nor do I really admire anyone. But you... There is just something... Inspiring and worthy of admiration.
My apologies for that. I can be pretty verbose sometimes, but I'm glad you enjoyed it.
I didn't really know what I was going for in terms of the voice of the speaker in the poem, but I will say that this is based on some more personal things in my life.
It's rather difficult for me to aptly express myself without using words that form poems or what-have-you, since that's almost integral to how I, well, function. Regardless, I feel incredibly lucky to just have people read my work at all... but, to hear that I've actually inspired another person... it just makes me feel so profoundly astounded. No one's ever really said that to me before, and if it's from someone like you, who is rarely inspired by anyone, it kinda makes me feel like there's something within you that's worth admiring too.
I didn't even know I could do that from just something I wrote.
As I write this I sort of feel something in my stomach, and it feels pretty strange. However, I can't quite tell where this feeling comes from, as it's rather new.
Bah. I'm probably just extremely flattered. ^ ^;
I didn't really know what I was going for in terms of the voice of the speaker in the poem, but I will say that this is based on some more personal things in my life.
It's rather difficult for me to aptly express myself without using words that form poems or what-have-you, since that's almost integral to how I, well, function. Regardless, I feel incredibly lucky to just have people read my work at all... but, to hear that I've actually inspired another person... it just makes me feel so profoundly astounded. No one's ever really said that to me before, and if it's from someone like you, who is rarely inspired by anyone, it kinda makes me feel like there's something within you that's worth admiring too.
I didn't even know I could do that from just something I wrote.
As I write this I sort of feel something in my stomach, and it feels pretty strange. However, I can't quite tell where this feeling comes from, as it's rather new.
Bah. I'm probably just extremely flattered. ^ ^;
My, to think that someone would actually like this old piece of mine blows my mind to smithereens. It's terrible on the breath if read aloud, and I just put it here in the hope that I could actually write something again. During the time I posted this, I was having incredible doubts about what I write, so much that I stopped writing altogether for months.
This poem sprung from my casual interactions with these beasts of my mind I've come to call the Consciences. (It's a long story.) The piece should describe the rest, even if a lot of it is, really, just me fumbling around with the English language. .-.
I'm delighted beyond belief that you enjoyed it, though. I think a lot of my work just springs up from how, so often, I just want to leave behind something that people can connect with and/or enjoy wholeheartedly. It's never easy to write (and I'm trying to learn that that's all right; that, sometimes, things just won't fall in place), but I've come to think that it helps to have a bit of patience with oneself. It's incredibly difficult to do so when I feel like the world would be better off without my works and that I ought to just burn my papers, manuscripts, drafts and journals already and forget that all of this ever happened.
It brings a bit of solace, almost like sunlight bundled in a present, to know that someone -- if only a single person -- actually adores what you've been doing. It helps me.
It helps me with the construction of what I believe all worthwhile writing to be: an effort of communication, a hand stretched into the dark.
Thank you for helping me remember that.
This poem sprung from my casual interactions with these beasts of my mind I've come to call the Consciences. (It's a long story.) The piece should describe the rest, even if a lot of it is, really, just me fumbling around with the English language. .-.
I'm delighted beyond belief that you enjoyed it, though. I think a lot of my work just springs up from how, so often, I just want to leave behind something that people can connect with and/or enjoy wholeheartedly. It's never easy to write (and I'm trying to learn that that's all right; that, sometimes, things just won't fall in place), but I've come to think that it helps to have a bit of patience with oneself. It's incredibly difficult to do so when I feel like the world would be better off without my works and that I ought to just burn my papers, manuscripts, drafts and journals already and forget that all of this ever happened.
It brings a bit of solace, almost like sunlight bundled in a present, to know that someone -- if only a single person -- actually adores what you've been doing. It helps me.
It helps me with the construction of what I believe all worthwhile writing to be: an effort of communication, a hand stretched into the dark.
Thank you for helping me remember that.
Comments