Table of Contents You may submit any of your writing to be critiqued by a panel of peer critics by emailing it to littleal87@aol.com with "To Critique" in the subject line. Critiques provided by a panel of peer editors: Even if you have previously done so, please send your DOB/gender/location to littleal87@aol.com because the file containing the birthdays was wiped clear. This helps to create a picture of the demographics of the club and your birthday will be featured in the newsletter! Thank you very much for participating.
The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
THE WRITE STORIES
Fall of the Unhallowed
[ashie_chic@Girlfriend.com.au]
The Zion Ocean pounded out its rage on the rocks below. Thrashing with
the wind, befriending the storm. The heavens were being slashed by
thunderbolts while I rose uneasily, caused by both nerves and the
pointless armor. The nemesis I was facing today could easily wrench it
off without lifting a finger, psychic abilities of unmatchable power.
This was the final face-off depicting the apocalypse of either side.
Light against dark, the so-called eternal battle was finally ending,
which raised the question of whether anything could be eternal. I stepped
carefully trying not to show any weakness. The storm raged on,
abolishing the hope for any inner peace. I took in a deep shaky breath
and continued up the crumbling steps leading to the battleground of
the Zionease. I passed over the last step, and looked down at the ant
like figures that were my sole supporters. The ones by my side through
it all, my unicorn Myst, Griffin Xander, Dragon Flamedura and Soul
mate Rougue. Even from here I could see he was hurting, and it was all I could
do to stop myself from running to his embrace. I took a deep breath and
turned to the awaiting evil, standing expectantly in front of a
hideously grotesque Cyclops. Deformed--even for its kind--but
extremely loyal, despite unimaginable torture. I drew myself up to my
full height to summon up the elders' powers to be with me. Now I would
avenge my Druid's murder.
Evil seen through all the ages and generations,
Monstrosities, demons, warlocks and destroyers of nations,
I vow to banish thee. My voice quavered, all life depended on the
completion of this spell. I went on, above the echo of the warlords
mocking laughter.
But alone I cannot stand,
Ancient all mighty and wise
Lend me the power of the skies.
The instant the spell was finished it was like time froze as if
building its energy up for something. Just for a split second. Then
the storm began generating an unbelievable amount of power. The light
sides new lease on life. I wished my teacher, my Druid were here. I
took one last look at the evil that had nearly destroyed me. Now an
unknown voice screamed at me, NOW! I threw up my arms. SPIRIT
LIGHTNING DESTOY! I gave it my all. Then everything blurred into
darkness. I felt as though I was floundering, just drifting unto death
until I was disturbed by a familiar echoing voice. Rougue. I struggled
to open my eyes. The storm had left the brightest day. I tried to say
goodbye but I couldnt even muster a whisper. Little did I know that
was the last time I would see daylight.
THE WRITE POETRY
Idle
A flame burned this page,
Rushing, glowing water, with sun sparkling inside,
Lightly running across the plain until its footprints deepen
Like packed pressure on wet sand.
Flame builds a temporary home of fibers;
Once home degenerates to ash, it vacates,
Leaving room for willing tenants.
Use abuse the underworld muse,
Scarring Earths skin tissues,
Then, a paper apocalypse erupts.
Its prints are now an ash gravestone
The Creator turns the page and begins to write a new tale.
--Madra 7of9
Whispers
Faithless Im considered
Doubt in God above,
Friendships just a game
No such thing as love.
People come and go
But none stay for good,
Talents overpowered
Lacking all you could.
Change is corrupting
Theres a stranger in the mirror,
Relations faking strong
Connections no where near.
Hungry for wisdom
Ready for lifes game,
But nothing anymore
Seems to be the same.
Yearning for the faith
That I do not possess,
Yearning for belief
For passion and caress.
But my words are only heard
And life moves on so fast,
The truth hides in me
Along with whispers of the past.
[punkrockerkc333@comcast.net]
I Love You
[spoiledme1987]
I love you with all my heart
I have from the start
Words can't explain
The feelings that I have for you
You came into my life
And took away all the pain
Now I have feelings
That I have never felt before
Every since you walked in the door
I love you more and more
Everyday
In My own special way
You do things for me
that no other has done before
When you tell me you love me
I know it's sincere
I want you to know
That I love you
With all my heart
And I have from the start
Media F/X
[sphinxmagic@yahoo.com]
BANG
RAT-A-TAT-TAT
ZOOM
BAM
SMASH
What a great movie!
SCREECH
CRASH
Movie?
THUD
BOOM
This is the news.
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
Christopher The Red, 23
Therissa
Allison, high school senior
Sleepwalks in L.A.
[Madra 7of9]
The other side of the train tracks is every other block. Los Angeles: a city of white-collar structures built above the suffocation of blue-collar streets. Men must raise their heads up high to keep from breathing the smoke that rises from corpses ablaze with poverty.
He sings: (Why "he"? Who's "he"?) (Maybe "He" is a prophetic street man or Fate or even God.)
So many sleep between the sheets
Of busy men in gray, (sheets of men in gray...?)
And try to reap the blissful night (How does one reap the night?)
But fail along the way.
So dusk cheats and skips to dawn (I really like that phrase.)
Denying dark its timeless song
And men, under the burning sun,
Flame, fall, fiend, and fray. (... not sure "fiend" belongs there... it isn't a verb describing "Men"...)
In this city, light is what lurks, exposing the secrets and their stories. It creeps in greedy corners, vengeful alley cats, and mind-controlling cures for the common curse. (I like the nonsense-making-sense-ness, but am not sure about "vengeful alley cats.")
He fades:
Curses sputter from men in backpack homes,
Crackling chrome spitfire from the nickel and dime hearth,
Ash truth, a sharp sickle sign,
Is too much for foggy eyes and locked minds (Mmm. Like this bit.) (Nice descriptions here.)
Here, men are cursed with addiction to green numbered leaves that flutter before their shining eyes and silvery drooling mouths. The trashbag men lazily harvest drought-afflicted rows of coin; the briefcase men scramble to gather abundant grass. One gains a bite to eat; one takes a car to drive. (The allusion to money seems a bit too blatant-- almost a parable-- "green numbered leaves" and "silvery" mouths. I like the grass-gathering bit. Maybe it could be a more peaceful [yet still futile] image? And the last sentence of the pgph seems a bit superfluous.) (I don't think it's too blatant...I like that the curse of drugs and money has been interlaced in the imagery to represent the same thing.)
He speaks:
This street is filled with endless vacancy;
One block down, it is brimming with empty hearts.
If you listen to what is not sound,
You just may hear their thoughts. (Be careful with words/phrases like "endless", "just may", and "brimming". It almost, but not quite, sounds a little too Roses-Are-Red-ish.) (I like the paradox of "brimming" and "empty." At the same time, I'm afraid that it might be a little too much to go with the listening to "not sound." Whose thoughts might I hear?)
He stops.
This homeless messenger has a home: a golden gremlin city that trembles under daylight and nightlights. Men walk ceaselessly among the streets like zombies, sleeping in the pale glow of the light at the end of an endless tunnel. ("Ceaselessly"-- too much.)
I have to be impartial-- I like this better than a lot of things I've been given to review so far. It needs more "polishing" at this point than "rooting things up and starting over."
First, I'd just be careful of your images-- I get the feeling you're scooping things up from your subconscious and throwing them onto the page, and sometimes it evokes strange images that really work ("golden gremlin city", that bit after "he fades") but sometimes the images don't really make sense (sleep between sheets of men in gray-- I still like that image, though)... Maybe just tighten them up a bit.
And watch the rhymes-- sometimes it feels like you're forcing them.
Lastly, make sure you don't make things too blatant-- esp. the whole "poor vs. rich" thing. Sometimes it seems too simple.
Don't get freaked out by all the criticism, by the way-- I can critique so much BECAUSE it's so good. Otherwise I'd give extremely general notes, like "work on what you're trying to say"...
Good stuff!
I like it. I agree that sometimes the rhyme sounds a little forced, but the writing here is complex enough to handle it more than most of the poetry that we often get. Many times poets feel that they are required to rhyme. You're not rhyming because you feel you have to, you're doing it for emphasis and that's how it should be. Your alliteration plays the same role. Your imagery and the entire piece is extremely powerful and striking. I love that this is the kind of work that has more than one surface level; it's complex such that a person may have to read slowly to fully understand what you're getting at, but it's not so random that it can't be understood. Still, make sure that YOU understand all of your imagery. I can tell that you fully understand your message, but some of the phrases you use don't completely gel. I know it's been mentioned before, but "sheets of men in gray" is such an example. At the very least, you must understand how people can sleep in sheets of men in gray, especially if they're destitute. If you could not explain it fully, then don't use it. Otherwise, good job!
I like the descriptions that you used in your piece. You get the feeling that you are in a dream or indeed sleepwalking. Some parts, though, were a little hard to follow because it was all at once, like a run on sentence.
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
"Miguel de Cervantes, born in Alcal de Henares in 1547, was the son of a surgeon who presented himself as a nobleman, although Cervantes's mother seems to have been a descendant of Jewish converts to Christianity. Little is known of his early years. Four poems published in Madrid by his teacher, the humanist Lpez de Hoyos, mark his literary dbut, punctuated by his sudden departure for Rome, where he resided for several months...[Cervantes served in the Spanish military, almost losing his left hand.]... After five years spent as a slave in Algiers, and four unsuccessful escape attempts, he was ransomed by the Trinitarians and returned to his family in Madrid. In 1585, a few months after his marriage to Catalina de Salazar, twenty-two years younger than he, Cervantes published a pastoral novel, La Galatea, at the same time that some of his plays, now lost except for El trato de argel and El cerco de Numancia, were playing on the stages of Madrid. Two years later he left for Andalusia, which he traversed for ten years, first as a purveyor for the Invencible Armada and later as a tax collector. As a result of money problems with the government, Cervantes was thrown into jail in Seville in 1597; but in 1605 he was in Valladolid, then seat of the government, just when the immediate success of the first part of his Don Quixote, published in Madrid, signaled his return to the literary world. [In this book, a middle-aged Spaniard, impressed by the fantasy he finds in books, sets off with his servant to revive the age of chivalry.] ... During the last nine years of [Cervantes's] life, in spite of deaths in the family and personal setbacks, Cervantes solidified his reputation as a writer. He published the Novelas ejemplares in 1613, the Viaje del Parnaso in 1614, and in 1615, the Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses and the second part of Don Quixote, a year after the mysterious Avellaneda had published his apocryphal sequel to the novel. At the same time, Cervantes continued working on Los trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda, which he completed three days before his death on April 22, 1616, and which appeared posthumously in January 1617. "
--http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/cervantes/english/index.html & http://www.magicalrealism.com/authors/32.html
To learn more about Miguel de Cervantes:
http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/cervantes/english/index.html
http://www.magicalrealism.com/authors/32.html
http://www.h-net.org/~cervantes/csapage.htm
http://www.classicreader.com/booktoc.php/sid.1/bookid.1148/
http://users.ipfw.edu/jehle/wclinks.htm
SPECIAL BIRTHDAY ANNOUNCEMENTS
February 23rd, 1985 katedagreat23@yahoo.com
Happy Birthday!
