Charlee, thank you for sharing this deeply moving poem. I am struck by your courage and honesty in illuminating an inner experience so many struggle with yet hide in isolation.
Perhaps within revealing shared frailties lies community's seed; in naming darkness comes light.
Larry, might I ask - in your envisioning of eternity glimpsed through ever-changing landscape, what thoughts surface on our small yet steadfast role amid impermanence?
Your gentle prompts give much to lift the mind. Thank you for the gift of verse and the gratitude it sparks within this reader.
Dear Lucy Mary Ann, thank you for sharing your poem.
I'm left wondering - as truth contends with crowd-din, how might love's integrity guide the way through inclusion? Conversation, not confrontation, often opens new understandings. Again, thank you for the thoughtful lines - may writing continue to reveal life's deeper meanings.
I am the accumulated swarming of infinite movement delivering me to this single point of evolved profundity.
I, and everything within me is the service and the splendour of countless miracles all within one extraordinary, innefable dance of immaculate proportions.
It takes nothing to arrive here,. Yet I am lead to believe that I am required of, to lift heavy weight and drive myself harder towards an obvious end.
However, I am always at the end, as I am always at the beginning. The only question is, which way do I look? One leads to the inevitable, and the other to that which is no longer available, to that which will never be available again. Lost in the empty, contagious continuum of memory. Sustained only by an attention to it.
I am the arriving and the arrived. I am the becoming and the become. I am the Full Stop, directly positioned and secured in time. I am the Comma, paused and surrendered. I am also the TBC, longing for the the story to continue.
I most certainly will, good man. If you feel prompted to offer me a first line from your creative peophery, then I'd be excited to continue it. Think Mr Squiggle lol 😄
I’m not a poet, I’m a storyteller. Here are my words:
It would be elegant to begin this presentation – one of my craft – by praising the stories written by Raymond Carver, Chekhov, Babel, or even the unsuspected letters of van Gogh to his brother Theo. However, fate willed that I first embrace a piece of advice and a practice dictated by a departed soul: Brás Cubas.
It is his advice that introductions should be short or delivered in an obscure and truncated manner. It is also his practice to seek arguments from other authors; he cites Stendhal, I seek from his posthumous memoirs.
In truth, I also borrow from the deceased a fearless approach to confessions, that strange practice favored by distance, time, intimacy, or the hope of forgiveness: my stories, all of them without a defined style, daughters of a time when no one has time, almost all crafted and scattered to the winds, were written without method and without owner, only with the inks of astonishment. Forgive me.
In their content, prudent, I fled from known plots and people who pay taxes; imprudent, I forgot that life tries, with all its might, to resemble a well-told story. This post, for example, began to be written with one eye on the unlikely advice from beyond, while the other, foolishly dancing over the waters, went to seek shelter in islands of confessions, presumably real.
And so, fellow writer, hand in hand with the imponderable, hearing voices, pacing steps, and squinting towards those who come into my stories, I extend to you the best welcome I can: writing is good; being read is better.
Best regards,
Vitor Bertini
*Brás Cubas is the name of the main character in the book The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas by Machado de Assis, a Brazilian writer.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Vitor. Your reflections on storytelling and the art of writing are deeply appreciated. Your approach to crafting stories with a blend of introspection and honesty is inspiring. Writing indeed holds great value, and being read affirms that value. Your welcome is received warmly.
Below is a comment on your latest poem "beginning"
In just a few beautiful lines, you explore the tension between creative flow and the need for stability, and you give us a glimpse into the human condition. I love how your poem gives the reader space to think and ponder, inviting them on a journey with you through gentle, open-ended questions.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read it and then to share these thoughtful comments -- my first comment feedback on one of my poems on Substack, yay :) I'm very grateful.
I love the moon, as you can tell and I once heard that there is a love story between these two. To sums it up, one day the moon decided to go for a walk and visit all the planets till it was the turn of the earth and when she did she fell for him but they couldn't stay together and so from that day on, the moon decided that she would come out every day and visit the earth, even if from a distance... Silly perhaps, but it’s sums up what does it mean to love and not have sometimes.
So, I decided to write something that portrays this story and the beauty and sadness I find in it.
Aleida, thank you for sharing this reflection on longing from afar. Your poem captures so poignantly the intricate dance of proximity and remove that defines so many relationships.
Your imagery flows with subtle grace, like the celestial bodies that inspire it.
Please keep sharing your explorations with us - works like this are why many turn to poetry in the first place. Thank you.
Thank you for this opportunity to share my work and read the truly lovely words of other writers!
I write haikus and free verse in my notes and long form essays and stories in my posts - Ellie Thompson - Everyday Adventures
Soft, sweet waves today
Catching the sun with each rise
Geese swim in a row
https://substack.com/@elliethompson/note/c-69669107?r=tvyhb&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action
What a lovely and calming piece, Ellie. Your words create such a serene and gentle scene.
She sits in her room after school
Thinking about how she wished she could be cool
Nobody cared about her
She was just another person, another blur
She hides deep inside
She can't find her way out
She constantly tries
But she constantly fails
Not knowing when this will end
She keeps going
Staying strong for her friends
Hiding her true self
She always comes to school with a smile
But she feels like she's walking miles
Nobody cares
Nobody listens
She screams inside in pain
She won't reach out for help
Her mom slowly dying
But she as well is dying on the inside
She doesn't have a purpose
She is constantly feeling worthless
It feels as if she lives in a circus
Everything and everybody going a thousand miles an hour
But sometimes she wishes she could jump from the tower
Scolding hot showers
To burn away the pain
Chewing gum to feel less hungry
She wishes she wasn't angry
She hates herself
She was only twelve
Twelve and diagnosed with something that isn't scared to affect many others
She's now fifteen
She wants to feel like a queen
But everybody was way too mean
She has a guy that likes her
She is constantly asking why he cares
He said "because I love you"
Those words hit her hard
She has never heard them before
Because her heart was always being torn apart
Depression kills
Anxiety scares
She wishes she was normal
But she will never change
Charlee, thank you for sharing this deeply moving poem. I am struck by your courage and honesty in illuminating an inner experience so many struggle with yet hide in isolation.
Perhaps within revealing shared frailties lies community's seed; in naming darkness comes light.
Your gift is a gesture of healing.
PASSAGES
Come with me to view the sea
to wonder at its eternity.
We’ll leave our sinking morass
for freedom from class against class.
But the ocean’s beckoning bright
now gives us cause for fright.
The warming waters are rising fast
and our golden coasts cannot last.
Maybe to the hills we go,
avoiding forests with fires aglow.
Or maybe go to the polar climes
warming to pleasant summertimes.
But when life is almost spent
we realize nothing is permanent.
If we could wind back time
could we create monuments sublime?
History hardly remembers and
its errors are but glowing embers.
We will slip from history’s grip
as we embark on dawn’s bright trip.
© 2024 Larry Kilham
Larry, might I ask - in your envisioning of eternity glimpsed through ever-changing landscape, what thoughts surface on our small yet steadfast role amid impermanence?
Your gentle prompts give much to lift the mind. Thank you for the gift of verse and the gratitude it sparks within this reader.
In the depths of my entire being
I cling to truth and wisdom
Shivering, flailing, engulfed in hesitation
Tears flood my goose-bumped skin
Mortifying echoes of non-existent
Crying out as my heart beats hard
Against the rib cage received from Adam
Not an appendage to be cast out
But a fruitful, loving, caring human
Who won't be silenced by the noisy crowd
Of MAGAs, or Donald, or JD
It will not be for I stand as a testament to better things
Values, Love, Integrity, and Inclusion instead of
Stolen Valor, Lies, Implosion, and extinguishing of human will
Dear Lucy Mary Ann, thank you for sharing your poem.
I'm left wondering - as truth contends with crowd-din, how might love's integrity guide the way through inclusion? Conversation, not confrontation, often opens new understandings. Again, thank you for the thoughtful lines - may writing continue to reveal life's deeper meanings.
I am the arriving.
I am the accumulated swarming of infinite movement delivering me to this single point of evolved profundity.
I, and everything within me is the service and the splendour of countless miracles all within one extraordinary, innefable dance of immaculate proportions.
It takes nothing to arrive here,. Yet I am lead to believe that I am required of, to lift heavy weight and drive myself harder towards an obvious end.
However, I am always at the end, as I am always at the beginning. The only question is, which way do I look? One leads to the inevitable, and the other to that which is no longer available, to that which will never be available again. Lost in the empty, contagious continuum of memory. Sustained only by an attention to it.
I am the arriving and the arrived. I am the becoming and the become. I am the Full Stop, directly positioned and secured in time. I am the Comma, paused and surrendered. I am also the TBC, longing for the the story to continue.
TBC...
Mattie, thanks for sharing this poem. It made me think about the bigger questions about our lives, and how we can make the most of the time we have.
I like that you left the poem "TBC," because it's got me thinking about how we can keep the conversation going.
Please continue as inspiration moves you.
I most certainly will, good man. If you feel prompted to offer me a first line from your creative peophery, then I'd be excited to continue it. Think Mr Squiggle lol 😄
I’m not a poet, I’m a storyteller. Here are my words:
It would be elegant to begin this presentation – one of my craft – by praising the stories written by Raymond Carver, Chekhov, Babel, or even the unsuspected letters of van Gogh to his brother Theo. However, fate willed that I first embrace a piece of advice and a practice dictated by a departed soul: Brás Cubas.
It is his advice that introductions should be short or delivered in an obscure and truncated manner. It is also his practice to seek arguments from other authors; he cites Stendhal, I seek from his posthumous memoirs.
In truth, I also borrow from the deceased a fearless approach to confessions, that strange practice favored by distance, time, intimacy, or the hope of forgiveness: my stories, all of them without a defined style, daughters of a time when no one has time, almost all crafted and scattered to the winds, were written without method and without owner, only with the inks of astonishment. Forgive me.
In their content, prudent, I fled from known plots and people who pay taxes; imprudent, I forgot that life tries, with all its might, to resemble a well-told story. This post, for example, began to be written with one eye on the unlikely advice from beyond, while the other, foolishly dancing over the waters, went to seek shelter in islands of confessions, presumably real.
And so, fellow writer, hand in hand with the imponderable, hearing voices, pacing steps, and squinting towards those who come into my stories, I extend to you the best welcome I can: writing is good; being read is better.
Best regards,
Vitor Bertini
*Brás Cubas is the name of the main character in the book The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas by Machado de Assis, a Brazilian writer.
PS: https://bybertini.substack.com
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Vitor. Your reflections on storytelling and the art of writing are deeply appreciated. Your approach to crafting stories with a blend of introspection and honesty is inspiring. Writing indeed holds great value, and being read affirms that value. Your welcome is received warmly.
Best regards,
Augmented Man
Morning Aug. I occasionally will take part in the haiku prompts from Honeygloom, which does a prompt every day.
My biggest collection, though, is the Words of a Physicist series, of which the first installment was published back in 2021. It's not in print now, but it is available on my substack if you want to take a look - https://theautisticmuse.substack.com/p/the-words-of-a-physicist-part-1-poem?r=1v3058
Thank you, Dylan! I’ll definitely check it out.
Good morning, Aug. I’m not a poet — but gladly state that reading today’s column nudged me to participate.
Perhaps this poem will encourage young poets to submit their work and help promote your vision.
Title: Whimsy
Woke this morning feeling great
Wanted to write a poem
But my damned little brother pissed me off
Hey RGomez,
Thanks for the smile this morning! Your poem adds a fun twist to the day. Encouraging others is what it’s all about.
Thanks for this - looking forward to reading here more. My substack - https://tonihurford.substack.com
Dear Toni,
Below is a comment on your latest poem "beginning"
In just a few beautiful lines, you explore the tension between creative flow and the need for stability, and you give us a glimpse into the human condition. I love how your poem gives the reader space to think and ponder, inviting them on a journey with you through gentle, open-ended questions.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read it and then to share these thoughtful comments -- my first comment feedback on one of my poems on Substack, yay :) I'm very grateful.
Thanks for allowing this share https://rolandoandrade.substack.com/p/home
https://conniecasellaihave.substack.com/archive
https://open.substack.com/pub/thevestedleopard/p/eternity?r=n1lxc&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
thanks for allowing this share: https://lauradanielswriter.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/groups/399191694738673
https://open.substack.com/pub/arielcastle/p/when-is-and-ally-no-longer-an-ally?r=2xokt7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
https://mmadill0.medium.com/job-searching-but-make-it-poetic-b3a1679b131f
https://mmadill0.medium.com/in-between-the-lines-311989ca82cb
https://mmadill0.medium.com/the-scent-of-flowers-e4b9ef6f21dc
https://mmadill0.medium.com/everyone-has-been-scared-before-its-okay-80de68050223
https://mmadill0.medium.com/where-are-my-night-people-at-28439bc0f810
Check out some of my poetry!
Like the moon and the earth.
Like the moon and the earth,
That's how I feel, every time
I pause upon your fences.
Like the moon and the earth,
That's how I feel, every time
I remember your face, and
Decide to pay you a visit.
Like the moon and the earth,
That's how I feel, every time
I stop by;
Admiring from a distance.
Like the moon, who feel for the earth,
That's how I feel, most nights;
So close and so far,
So filled with longing,
So filled with love and life.
Like the moon and the earth,
That's how I feel, as
I take the last glance;
Done for the night, but
Missing you already.
Like the moon and the earth.
About this poem:
I love the moon, as you can tell and I once heard that there is a love story between these two. To sums it up, one day the moon decided to go for a walk and visit all the planets till it was the turn of the earth and when she did she fell for him but they couldn't stay together and so from that day on, the moon decided that she would come out every day and visit the earth, even if from a distance... Silly perhaps, but it’s sums up what does it mean to love and not have sometimes.
So, I decided to write something that portrays this story and the beauty and sadness I find in it.
Aleida, thank you for sharing this reflection on longing from afar. Your poem captures so poignantly the intricate dance of proximity and remove that defines so many relationships.
Your imagery flows with subtle grace, like the celestial bodies that inspire it.
Please keep sharing your explorations with us - works like this are why many turn to poetry in the first place. Thank you.
Thank you for your encouraging words. It means a lot. And I will share more.