I had no idea what would become of our run in. I had fled the scene months ago, haunted by pools of blood, drenching my clothes and fingers. The taste of it, sweet with undermining metallic flavorings, adding to an addiction I had never wanted. I had left him at my parent’s house without ever looking back, but here we were in the same room, forced to stare at each other, forced to face each other’s wrath. His was directed at my thievery, mine was aimed at the curse he had placed upon me since the first day I died. So what was I to do now? Pretend as if I hadn’t seen and go about my day, rush through procedures with a hurried haste? Check out of this God forsaken hotel and find a new place to lodge under a new name in a foreign city? I did none of that. I looked all around at the poor mortal souls encircling us, possible casualties to a possible battle.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, my dear.” He told me with perfect suavity, ignoring the glimmer of shiny metal protruding from my jacket sleeve. I kept a knife there always, never believing in my ‘supernatural vampire abilities’, though there were few. Swiftness, immortality, the upside of a nocturnal life. A creature of the night, an abomination to Christianity, and most other religions. My blade dipped into my skin, scraping it slightly and sending a shiver of euphoria, the kind Jexi didn’t miss. He rarely missed anything. That’s why I was sitting here, next to him, getting a high from a dagger as I was submerged into the murky dangerous waters that was this conversation.
He smiled to himself, scratched the hint of stubble on his jaw to try to mask the obviousness of his reaction. He was pleased with himself. He was fucking pleased with himself. He thought it entertaining to h...
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...anticipation. There was an envelope beneath me, I noticed as I moved away from the spot I had been laying. One addressed with my name and my heart raced for the unexpected, for the hope that maybe my dreams would come true. I wanted it to be from him, I wanted to see his writing, I wanted to be able to imagine him, hunched over a small piece of paper, contrasting its ivory with the ink in his pen, finding and trying the words that world phrase his own desires perfectly. That calligraphy that decorated the front screamed at me to open, to know. To go out into the world today and be able to say whatever was enclosed in this beautifully handwritten letter. But I didn’t. I let it stay closed as I slipped it into my purse, finished my packing and left this city for the next, not remembering why I came in the first place, but knowing that something good came out of it.
Just as with Erec, the origin of Enide is widely debated. There are two basic theories of how she came into existence in medieval literature. One theory is that it was Chretien De Troyes who created the characters Erec and Enide, and it was the Welsh that drew off of Chretienís work in order to fabricate their own tales of the two (Owen xvi). This theory may have evolved due to the fact that "Wales contributed very little, or even nothing of importance to the Arthurian legend as it developed in France, and Germany and then in England" (Jones and Jones xxv). Chretien was therefore given the credit because of his extensive writings on the Arthurian legends, and the fact that he was French. However, a more widely accepted theory is that the story of Erec and Enide was derived from the Welsh (Jones xxv). Evidence supporting this theory is that of the "comparative folktale, of proper names and linguistics, and what may be reasonably if tentatively deduced from the methods of literary composition in the Middle Ages" (Jones xxvi). Due to the fact that no one is sure who wrote about Enide first, the task of finding where she first appears in literature is daunting undertaking. Nevertheless, we are able to fill in some of the gaps as to where Enide is mentioned in some texts. Circa 1170, Chretien De Troyes wrote Erec and Enide that can be found in Chretienís collection entitled Arthurian Romances. Erec also appears in The Mabinogion, another collection of Arthurian tales. In this book, Erec, also called Geraint, appears in the tale Geraint son of Erbin. Lord Alfred Tennyson includes Enide in two out of the four Idylls of the King. Both "The Marriage of Geraint" and "Geraint and Enide" were written between 1809 and 1892. Enide also appears in some lesser-known, more modern works. These include two plays: Ernest Rhyís Enid: A Lyric Play (1918) and Donald R. Raweís Geraint: last of the Arthurians (1972), and Marion Lee Reynoldsí poem Geraint of Devon (Lupack).
...gives this poem a high level of appreciation and an increased level of understanding for those who read it. Due to these features of this poem, the message of wanting to break away from the daily routine and being something special that Creeley wants to convey through the poem is successfully achievable for the reader without a need for in depth close reading.
First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.
The story opens by embracing the reader with a relaxed setting, giving the anticipation for an optimistic story. “…with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green (p.445).”
“Your turn boy” said the man who killed my father, as he advanced towards me. I had awoken from the nightmarish trance, and my senses had finally returned, I was still in shock but I managed to compose myself for enough time to dash over to the tree where my horse was, and swiftly mount it and begin riding as fast as I could. The two murderers mounted their horses and were in hot pursuit, yelling and screaming behind me. Tears rolled down my cheek at the thought of never seeing or speaking to my father again. But I was determined to escape. It was his final command, and I didn’t want to disappoint
The cold gleaming edge of the blade, a thin razor. It once was a replacement blade for a shaver, now it is the tool of my own death, a tiny piece of demise. The sharpened edge and cool steel a sharp reminder of what I held. My palm faced upward, a thin morbidly dotted line dashed across my wrist, the blue veins and worn crease lines hidden below the thick permanent black marker. The steel, now warmed from my hesitant and fearful touch pressed a single corner against my flesh, the natural flexibility of my flesh giving in slightly against the unwavering corner, but the natural elasticity pushed back against the steel as well. The edge was so perfectly sharp that as the flesh pushed against it, the flesh spread apart allowing the warm metal to lick its first drops of blood. The corner slowly pushed across the dotted line, splitting the black mark in half on either side of the wrist, for the first moments there wasn't a sense of pain but then as the steel slowly moved the ache started to flow with the blood and a tingle of pain set in. Vibrant trickles of crimson started to flow down my wrist,a rush of life that soon would touch the elbow. The trickle grew, the razor halfway across the wrist. It was almost pleasurable, almost enjoyable, but it wasn't. Now the distress was growing, a pain of panic and fear more than physical discomfort. A gnawing sensation of unrest and worry arousing that primal instinct of self preservation. A thick harsh swallow, my throat felt so dry, so thick. A simple swallow turning into a war. Muscles tensing up in my shoulders, my teeth gritting and grinding as I tried to steady and control my tattered breath and shaking hands. Sweat droplets formed on my palms and numbness called attention to my hands.
Through the course of this poem the speaker discovers many things. Some discoveries made are physical while others are mental and emotional. On a physical level the speaker discovers a book, a new author and the power
‘’Abandon all hope, ye who enters here’’ - this rather peculiar and frightening phrase is what the reader initially encounters when co...
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
Gently swaying back and forth in an old wooden rocker, I take a break from my journaling. While listening to the creaky hum of the tired oak thumping out a blue song, I think about the art of writing, painting with my words, and wonder what hampers my creative practice. A foreboding sense of unworthiness floats into my consciousness and I ask myself why do I feel this way. Rifling through my thoughts a fog wraps around me like a blanket not for comfort but instead to shield the feelings of inadequacy. I take a deep breath and inhale the reassuring sage scent of our family room. I press on in this process of self-discovery; an old black and white photo sitting on a shelf captures my eye. I see an image of myself as a smiling, confident child, which stirs uneasiness within. Following the muddled whisperings in my mind, I return to the day in the snapshot and consider what comes to pass.
creature stood before me, gnarling teeth, sharp enough to slice cleanly through my flesh. Skin, a sickish green, mounted with boils and sores, rough and jagged all over. Claws, double the size of the contorted figure, curled by it's side. The creature hunched over, as it were waiting to pounce any second, or maybe as if I was waiting for it to pounce. Now, I was more curious then frightful. My feet glued to the floor, my heart pounding heavily. I was to be a victim, slaughtered and eaten as the main course yet I still stood. The compelling need, to look the creature in the eye had taken over, and my chin lifted. Our eyes met, and my breath caught in my throat. My stomach churned, not at the sight of the horns that stretched from it's forehead,
A calm crisp breeze circled my body as I sat emerged in my thoughts, hopes, and memories. The rough bark on which I sat reminded me of the rough road many people have traveled, only to end with something no one in human form can contemplate.
-Pulling into the parking lot I gave the place a once or twice over, checked out the surroundings. It appeared to be a motel with a diner around the side, I’d park toward the outskirts of the parameter so that I could keep the vehicle concealed. Stepping out I’d take another quick look around, there wasn’t anything that seemed out of the ordinary so I retrieved my lighter and lit the cigarette that was hanging loosely from my lips. The embers would glow a cherry neon red in the darkness, exhaling the smoke I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head and began to move. Every movement was graceful, but every step had purpose behind it. Entering the main office I’d find an old man waiting behind the desk, he was completely uncaring of my presence, caught up in his encore western channel film festival I would speak out, my voice hard edged yet smooth all at the same time. [color=400000]” Give me a room old man…...
...cribe the most elaborate of thoughts. At first, the reader feels as if they fully understand the text but a deeper look exposes more than just a superficial love poem. The work doesn’t seem like an act of fiction because the realities of the sentiments are absorbed within the text.
The narrator of “Penmanship” is a man madly in love in the art of writing. It is through entering the enchanting world of pen and paper that he is able to face the complexities of reality like social cancer (corruption), violence (murder) and fiery emotions (love) with strength and confidence. He could feel “a twinge of sorrow” every time he mails a letter because he had voluntarily given away a part of himself. I think for him (and may I boldly include everybody else who writes) that every word is carefully chosen to project, be it hinted or open for others to see, the personality, character and experience that molded him into becoming who he is at the present of writing.