This is most beautiful writing. If we were, you and I, sitting accros from each other over dinner, and then, perhaps, vodka, I think I would have many questions regarding what you have read in the past–what writers you most enjoy; which, you hate to love, or love to hate, or the other permutations thereof. Wonderful and touching.
Thanks for the insight – and now found time to reply! Yes, agree very much with what you say about graphs. However, the graphs here are ultra simple and barely in context in order to lure an audience to a post that is not a be all and end all.
I appreciate the mathematic analogy and contextualising, but the main issue is the raising of awareness of a supposed audience with an alarming degree of ignorance and either designed or triumphant “laissez-faire” attittude to news of the conflict: designed if they have religious caprices that include god’s chosen people and all that, and triumphant if they actually believe that North American media is actually merely reporting the conflict.
The analysis of the graphs come from the mathmetician, my alarm comes from your acknowledgement that among many you have some lack of understanding of the conflict and have minimal acquaintance with the background. To me that makes your position inevitable. Allow me further reading of your well written comment to further digress shortly – thanks!
I like this poem very much.
As for the prompt/picture, here are my two cents worth, so to speak:
When it involves poetry, or in fact any act of creation, there is no such thing as living in the past. I know this very well, as I have witnessed the search for novelty in art result ultimately in mere unintelligibility; the unconscious backlash from which results not so much in living in the past, but to some artists, choosing to master, or even refine older forms, and some to chose newer forms or invent such forms. Materials and subjects may always change. Therefore all new art is new, regardless of whether it is in an older style or a newer.
There is one poetry critic, whose name I will not mention here, that suggests that all subjects have been dealt with in poetry. But that is a ridiculous notion as well. I may well have read, for example, all the love poetry throughout the centuries and found nothing that made sense or “resonated,” so to speak, with what I feel, and think. Then, perhaps, in the year 2020, I happen to read some poetry that our dear Latoya has written on the subject and I might say or think: “Yes! That’s it exactly! That’s the way it really is for me!” That is newness.
And what if our Latoya has decided, for what ever reason, to master some older forms in 2015, and perhaps writes these poems in 2020 in the style of Greek Odes, simply because she likes the sound of them now that she has come to appreciate such a sound. So, am I then reacting to something old or something new? Obviously it is new, because all new poetry–new art–is new. In fact when I encounter a 500 year old poem in 2020 for the first time, it may strike me the same way. This poem is new to me.
In any event, I loved this poem and am going to reblog it–am reblogging it even as I sit here writing this in the bitter watches of the night. This has the sound when I read it aloud of loose couplet rhymes, and the line breaks punctuate it nicely. Lovely. I hope you will keep writing.
Was a love I couldn’t control
Washed up tears, aggressively stole
Running through trees
Rose bushes and oceans abound
Lost in time that had such a beautiful sound
Leave me to dream
Denial hates to be found
Playing between the sheets, blankets, pillows and all
Hearing the voices but never once answering to its call
Please wake me from this forbidden craft
That hides itself fully
Behind religious mask
The lust and betrayal
Well, it’s really hard to tame
And it could never be the same
Because sensations knows my name
From past games
I know there are many ways to avoid
Such gut wrenching pain
Love is really powerful
And can drive the strongest king insane
Strong enough to awaken the most forbidden sin
Love will stir your heart up
Take it back
Only to begin the madness again
Put me back together
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He sung of Sisters close and sweet; and taught
Of sea and wealth; he droned a mournful view
Of Death as fine as Death himself. He brought
A smile to my lips when all they knew
Was fear; and to a barren cheek he drew
The first and only tear. A place, he claimed,
Of no return, that no man ever knew;
A quickly fleeting image, And he named
It “Xanadu;” he dreamt a man beyond
A man within that Sunny Dome; An he
Should Drink of Paradise that dream had spawned
His home. I know he must have lived to see
Those Crystal Caves of Ice; For I, enticed
By Honey Dew, have drunk of Paradise.
Of Sisters he sung
And of Ancient Mariners;
And wrote of such death
As made death seem fine.
He brought joy and even tears
When he penned such depth.
And when he sung of
Xanadu and Kubla Kahn,
And his caves of Ice,
I dreamt along with
Him about his honey dew
And his paradise.