New sl et te r - Ju ne 2 00 2

Table of Contents

Section

Number of Entries

The Write Stories

.............................................................................1

The Write Poetry

.............................................................................3

Learn from the Masters

.............................................................................1

The Write "Stuff"

.............................................................................1

The Write Ads

.............................................................................

THE WRITE STORIES




TWILIGHT VISION

by Sorana-Lucia Salomeia(lsalomeia@tau.mec.tuiasi.ro)

16 years old

The Fine Arts Highschool "Octav Bancila"

Iasi, ROMANIA


Can you hear it now? The rain has stopped falling. See, the
air is clean and blue and it's so nice to breathe now. The sun has
finally broken out, the earth smells new while the golden sunbeams warm
against our skin.
Everything has rested, everything has found life again into a
new dimension.
Wherever lies the sea, the pounding of the rain, now you can
see the heaven shine, there, in the crystal mirror of the bay.
Here comes the breeze, chilly at the beginning, and you can see
how the bay freezes, but yet, in a minute, warmth floods as before.
The sun has awoken, the sun is here again.
A moment ago it was dark and chilly here, at home; a moment ago
it was silent and frozen, everything was closed and bolted. Now we can
open the windows toward the sun, now we find ourselves in the holy
light.
Now the rain has stopped and the cold shivers can air out.
Here we can live, here we can stay again.
Ring my bell where my heart beats, in the dark depths of my
well whirling in my waters' course. Floating like a swallow over a
summer meadow, the wide open horizon moves with every emotional push.
Sing my happiness, sing my yearning and longing, sing of my
wordless loss and my silent sorrow; and when my unrest permanently
increases in a grim time, ring my bell, the ringing that gives peace of
mind.
Sing my song to play and dance and, in the late summer night,
light a fire somewhere and let it burn slowly before the night flies
away. Let it warm somewhere before the next morning dawns.
The echo of a childhood illusion of a love that died long, long
ago but the new ringing lives and stays in my song.
Ring my bell, silver light and clear like the evening stars'
cover, elusive and wonderful beneath the night's shadows.
The day is now over, soon it's twilight, but we won't go home;
we will be dancing on the beach when the sun goes down to the horizon. A
summer's evening
The waves wash softly toward the land, the scent of salt is in
the air. The seaweeds make a carpet on the seashore among the nacre of
the shells.
Our bare feet, as we walk, leave footprints on the silvery sand
in a summer's evening
The warm wind caresses my cheeks and ruffles my hair.
We see a boat steering towards land, we listen to the seagulls'
cries, we hear a tuneful melody around folks like us in the twilight
hour of a summer's evening.
We know that autumn is chilly and grey, so we enjoy right now
the happy moments. We remember and dream ourselves back to what we saw
and dreamed in a summer's evening on the seashore.







THE WRITE POETRY



Optimism: the scourge of humanity.
Loneliness,
Boredom,
Society of phlegmatic zombies...
That's what we are.
No one to turn to
For a quiet conversation
Of otherworldly things.
We look around and see faceless monsters
Tied to the television,
Hooked on phonics.
Where am I?
I am in a place where regularly I'm told
I'm a dreamer
Overactive imagination
Immense vocabulary
Why do I use such big words?
They're me.
Creativity scorned
Except in small doses.
Why must I make my escape
To a world I've created?
Because you bore me.
You are not interesting
Amusing
Intelligent.
Just waiting for my white knight
To rescue me
Take me to a place where I'm not alone,
Where I'm among greatness,
Where my life has meaning again,
Where I'm home.

~Ai87




Weeping Willow
Weeping Willow,
Why do you cry?
Is it for the children,
Left to die?
Weeping Willow,
What's your sorrow?
Is it that you feel no hope,
For tomorrow?
Weeping Willow,
What's your prayer?
Is it that some day,
Someone will care?
Weeping Willow,
What do you see?
Is it something,
Inside of me?
Weeping Willow,
Why do you have tears?
Is it because you can't face,
All your fears?
Weeping Willow,
Why do still you cry?
Is it because you fear,
You too will die?
Weeping Willow,
Death is near,
So please tell me,
What's your fear?

~cwaszmer~



Letting Go

She waits by the door all night
Waiting for him to come back to her
She knows that all the things she built
Are changing with each passing second
And she lays her head down as she cries
But he doesn't seem to hear her
And she screams out inside
But he doesn't know her
She walks down the empty hallways
Because he's never home anymore
She sits in their bedroom
It's so cold and she's all alone
And she lays her head down as she cries
But he doesn't seem to hear her
And she screams out inside
But he doesn't know her
The tears she's cried for so long
They've all begun to run dry
She knows now that it's over
After all the time that's gone by
And she lays her head down as she cries
But he doesn't seem to hear her
And she screams out inside
But he doesn't know her
And time it passes by slowly
But she will make it on her own

~no_zd124@hotmail.com

LEARN FROM THE MASTERS

In this section, there are excerpts from already-famous writers and possibly some other insights regarding them. This issue's spotlight will be on Elizabeth Browning. She was born Elizabeth Barrett in Durham, on March 6, 1806. She was somewhat sickly, but she grew up to marry Robert Browning, also a poet. They both wrote beautiful poetry, especially on the topic of love. The following selection from Elizabeth Browning is quite famous, and hopefully we can all learn from her work. Enjoy!


Sonnets from the Portuguese: XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


Untermeyer, Louis. The Love Poems of Elizabeth and Robert Browning. Copyright 1994 by Barnes & Noble Books.

THE WRITE "STUFF"



"I'm just writing because of the new section. I
think it's an awesome idea. I also want to say how
much I love Shel Silverstein. I've read his writing ever since I was a
little kid. I started with The Giving Tree, which
today is still one of my favorite books. I was
absolutly heart-broken when I was told he died. He was
one of the greats in my opinion. His poetry may have
been for little kids, but in some ways he managed to
touch major issues that kids normally face. For
example, in one poem he wrote about a girl who always
cut in front of people shouting 'Ladies First!' Later
in the poem, she got her just desserts when the class
met up with a cannibal. I
won't give away anymore details, just in case you ever
read it. Anyway, he was one of the poets that started
me thinking about writing, although he wasn't any
Robert Frost."

~princess_leia_organa_12@yahoo.com




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