Before I sat down today, I scored an orange, a cross over the green stem, and I wrestled with the peel to force it away from the flesh. I trimmed my nails last week to keep myself from picking at my raw fingertips, and I thought it was helping, until today when I felt a dampness on my skin. I looked down to see a bit of blood seeping into my cuticle. Not enough for it to be a problem, but it made my heart sink a little, because I thought I was past this. Now, when I plunge my thumb beneath the orange peel, between the seam I made, the acidic citrus leaks across the cracked skin and my hand pulls itself to my mouth to draw out the pain. The rawness has nearly migrated to the middle of my thumbprint, where it spirals into itself. I’ve been wondering, if I keep this up, will I get a new fingerprint? Will my one claim to individuality be rewritten? Maybe this is my chance for a new beginning. My fingers have been shaking all week and I do not know what to do to stop it. It’s not that I am anxious, I think it’s just something fundamentally wrong in my brain these days. I think that I am so lucky to have written evidence of the decline of my brain in this past week, but it makes me so sad. I could blame the start of the Spring Semester, or I could blame myself, but I think that it is both. Phoebe Bridgers in my headphones is not helping.
I think I have moved on from the idea that growing up is causing all my problems, and it’s the sole reason I have been so sad. I think that I just need to get new friends. I need to wipe myself clean and maybe swim in the ocean and paint myself with sunshine, and wait for the good people to come to me. As it is right now, I love my friends so deeply it is killing me, and I cannot sit and wait for them to like me more. I think that the longer I wait, the harder it will be to say anything. What a bad sentence. I bet 300,000 people have said that sentence today. Today I stood in someone else’s kitchen, she made mac and cheese with the person that all of these things have been about, and I stood, in complete silence, wedged between the end of the stove and the wall. I have been making a habit of making myself small recently, and I am worried that it’s becoming an issue. I sit on the floor between two people I have known forever, and I shrink my legs down as small as they go. I sit in the darkness in the back of the car, listening, and not paying attention to my surroundings. When I go to say goodnight, what I hear from him is “I wish I was with my other friends instead of you.” Maybe that’s the real stupid sentence here. Or maybe both seem stupid because they are too much of the truth all at once. I have said all the wise things there are to say, I have made all the best, most thought out points ever said about one’s inner workings of the mind, and I think I have talked it all out. I am now left with the blind wondering. The silence that comes not from trying to think of an answer, but being without a question. That’s a good sentence.
Examine Mary Oliver’s Sleeping in the Forest, Twelve Moons with critical commentary.
“The special puzzle of Romanticism is the dialectical role that nature had to take in the revival of the mode of romance. Most simply, Romantic nature poetry, despite its long critical history of misrepresentations, was anti nature poetry […] Romantic or internalized romance […] tends to see the context of nature as a trap for the mature imagination.” Harold Bloom’s The Internalization of the Quest Romance
“It is the destiny if consciousness […[ to separate from nature, so that it can not only transcend not only nature but also its own lesser forms.” Georey Hartman’s Romanticism and Anti Self- Consciousness
Bloomian and Hartmanian tradition of Mary Oliver’s romantic nature poetry dichotomizes the antitheses between nature and self, body and soul, consciousness and unconsciousness, subject and object, nature and culture, language and muteness, death and immortality, imaginative speaker and immature child, transcendence and immanence. The speaker of the poem recollects the mystical closeness and amity with the natural world as suggested by the ritualizes camp trip sojournings in the forest floor of the maternal earth engulfs her like “as if she feels in water”. Herein the poet laureate superimposes the visionary selfhood upon “a stone on the riverbed”; because her drowsiness is not a blankness but the labyrinthine “lichens and seeds”.
The poet and the speaker impersonate Wordsworthian philosophical mind and Yeatsian Artice of Eternity through mimetic imitation of rocks, stones and trees of Wordsworth “A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal”. Witches, spinsters, crones and mother nature begin to speak for themselves, they transvalue their romantic forefathers’ mythic assessments as they defy the doom of muteness placed on all these female others who inhabit masculine poetic landscapes. Mary Oliver’s poetic revolutions embody mystical consciousness and experience of renewal. From the core of the heart’s engravings, Oliver’s everlasting bonding with nature in the face of sober truth memorializes the unity of the natural despite forsaking the association of supernatural eternity; her poems follow the cycles of the seasons to image loss and the possibility of renewal. Linda Gregerson reviews noteworthily, “She is not so much moved by the works of man, and she somehow contrives to love the world more than she loves language, no common feat for an artisan who works in words.”
Gratitude and reverence of the lyrical naturalist’s ardour of romantic nature poetry proclaims testimonial “I am sensual in order to be spiritual” amidst postmodern milieus. There is a fusion of Transcendental, Buddhist and Christian imageries grounded firmly in the earth, which Oliver views as God’s corporeality. Contemporary mystic of American poetry Mary Oliver stalks the edges of the marshes, journeying deep into the forests to open her breast to the known and the unknowable “as if the edge of sweet sanity” where “wild blind wings open” to interrogate nature of the soul, about its relation to the earth, about the damage of dualism it seeks to separate soul from body, body from earth and earth from the ultimate mystery of the immeasurable and unutterable nature of God heralded by Enlightenment.
Mary Oliver’s rapture with the nature such as the creatures of the wood and the sea, birds of the air, plants of the elds, trees of the forests—this is the liturgy of living things that the poet consistently dwells with and upon the elusiveness of the never-ending rosary.
Further Reading Janet McNew’s [St. John University] Mary Oliver and the Tradition of Romantic Nature Poetry, Contemporary Literature 1969, Volume. 30, No. 1, pp. 57-77, University of Wisconsin Press Journals Division Todd Davis’s The Earth as God’s Body: Incarnation as Communion in the poetry of Mary Oliver Christianity and Literature, Summer 2009, Volume 58, No. 4. Pp. 605-624
Mary Oliver
Examine William Blake’s A Poison Tree with critical commentary.
“A Poison Tree” is a counter myth which expresses the Biblical narrative of the Fall as a tree burlesquing the “Tree of the Forbidden Fruit”. Forbearance of the Wrath of God is anticipated in the allegorical symbolism of the poisoned tree as poetic vehicle, abstraction of human situation [repressed anger]. “I was angry …;/…my wrath did end.” propositional content and grammatical structure clash with substantiation of adjectival noun from angry towards wrath or indignation manifested as seven deadly cardinal vices that these lyrics implied in the metamorphosis of the whole poem. “I was angry with my foe, /I told it not, my wrath did grow.”——this couplet’s propositional content concerns the intensification of emotion, a subject now reinforced by the shift from angry to wrath. The shift is mediated by the pronoun “it”, which is indeed in this lyric Janus-faced part of speech; wrath can be cultivated following the verbs “watered” and “sunned”: “And I watered it in fears/ Night and morning with my tears;/ And I sunned it with smiles;/And with soft deceitful wiles.”——–
Wrath is watered and sunned with fears, tears and soft deceitful wiles; water’s alkalinity provides nourishing nutriment for the sustenance of the poison tree as the language oscillates between the conceptual and the phenomenal to provide a tangible equilibrium between the tenor and the vehicle. “And it grew both day and night/Till it bore an apple bright” —–herein the intense cultivation of anger culminates in literal incarnation which the poem’s conclusion is the incredible transformation despite the occurrence that cannot be gainsaid: “And my foe beheld it shine/And he knew that it was mine/ And into my garden stole/ When the night had veiled the pole/ In the morning glad I see, /My foe outstretched beneath the tree.”
Blake intends us to take the embodiment of deep malice and disdain to be the literalization of Milton’s Satanic forbearance from the forehead by the conceiving of sin. Objects become extensions or projections of the human agency as exploratorily examined in “A Poison Tree” in which the correspondence between human and the natural is […] pronounced […] “the apple bright of the poem” suggest [ing] […] a process where intense emotion repressed, because of binding social codes, is rendered into a tangible symbol.” The power of mind transcends that of the power of the matter in Blakean perspectives and poetic appreciation anthropomorphizing the inanimate and insensible to be personified symbolism of realistic living forms rather than mere poetic device of similitude.
Since […] “These poets knew that “All deities reside in the human breasts and their poetic tales or mythologies were imaginative account of imaginative reality and thus true” In other words, that the virtue of Christian forbearance is the psychological repression mythopoetically. For Blake the truth behind Genesis is that emanates anciently—and paradigmatically ——-a sneaking serpent of a man sought in the vested venture of vengeance blossoms into a fascinating macabre of incarnational narrative within hermeneutic tradition.
Further Reading Phillip J. Gallagher’s [The University of Texas at El Paso] The Word Made Flesh: Blake’s “A Poison Tree” and the Book of Genesis, Studies in Romanticism, Spring 1977. Volume 28, No. 2, William Blake 1757——-1827, Spring 1977, pp. 237—–249.
spinning plates for laundry money a scene of freezing
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bio/graf
J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website,MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is atJDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Colored Catastrophe
The world was colors. The streets were made of buttons and a fabric sky was raining droplets of paint that splatter on the world. My cheeks turn to a river of yellows and pinks and blues. They swirl down my arms and into my boots, landing with little plinks as they fall from my fingertips. Sequins stick to my eyes and I assume it’s gotten cold enough to snow. Paint dries on my skin and sticks me in place, staring at the sky. Arms outstretched, eyes wide, mouth wide.
Pom pom’s land on my tongue and dissolves like cotton candy. Dripping sweet, bitter, sour, cold, boiling. Streaming through my body till I break out of my cast. Running, walking, skipping, bouncing upon textiles. A person stands on the corner, stick still. I wave and get nothing back. My feet slow and I circle them only to find the person is entirely flat.
On an impulse I poke them and they crumple, colors mixing into brown water and swirling down a nearby drain I hadn't noticed before. I freeze before I dismiss the odd moment and keep waking, a strained smile on my face. I walk and walk for what seems like hours and probably is because when I finally reach the once distant city, the fabrics have gone black.
Entirely, there’s not a single star. Something moves in my peripheral and I spin fast only to see brown water trickling down the slope of the street. Another movement and I catch the last of a paper person sloshing to the ground with a squelch. I stare for a long moment, watching the water swirl down the street. Before walking away hesitantly, heading further into the city.
The sidewalks are empty as I wander, though occasionally water flips over my boots. I get so lost in thought that I don't notice when I enter a paper filled clearing until a frail hand taps my shoulder. I turn and the person looks me right in the eye for a long moment before promptly splashing downwards onto the pavement. Its friends follow suit and the square floods. It picks me up and takes me winding back through the city, back through the wilderness, all the way back to where a cast made of paint lays limp on the ground.
A portal similar to the one I arrived through waits there. It’s gray now. Gray like the world I live in. It was colorful before, inciting, inviting. This world is odd and the paper people are dying but it’s beautiful and marvelous. I’m not so sure I want to go back. The water pushes and I stumble into the gray. The blinding light vanishes quickly and I'm standing in my living room, alone. I move my hand to wipe my eyes only to realize, I'm a paper person and my feet are wet.
Design for Multiplanetary Life (If Ever Required) (499 words)
Flip?
Yah. Ho! = to lay down back up and explain what’s going on here when the planet Rstyj touched Earth’s farthest out registers {which had been set to zero by wise elders way long back who, in the grip of this that and those silly superstitions, believe that such collisions were at least, remotely, if not less than, actually possible.} all qualified minds (whew) came up with OOPS this hippo; what was needed, in anticipation of the number of planets unpredictably expanding, there needed to have a flexible material set in place that when planet # 2 came out and there needed to be a seamless state-of-being between planets #1 and #2, this flexi-floor would stretch on its own providing seamlessly unified living surface for each and every planetary creature, each one of which, though having been forced into interplanetariazational existance, the stretching device would transform this interplanetariazationalism into invisibility for the living creature who would become aware of and be comfortable living on a virtual uniplanetary surface (and be happy to do so. yip This being way way much more practical organically pleasing underlayment of their plane of existence than the way way back there previously described roundy-bout sum early pages as “elaborate and rickety illusionary systems of catwalks, slim scaffolding, mind/memory machine tools, error traps, run-off diverters and pap-scagagglia la la pap-scagagglia, hooonley, with the necessary vision generators belief drowners hoit-toit Spangle! Co-lock’t Spangle! of a Spangle! and scads of other barely profitable jury-rigged illusion systems” and et-cetranoonia (back-whistle dumpster) which, of course, given the mystical nature of reality nowadays, may actually underlie this new-flangied flexi-floor stretched out under the multiplanetary string, on its own providing seamlessly unified living surface for each and every planetary creature {whether they like it or knot up died trying} so rich sweat whizz DIP! sweat wheeze wheeze sweat the last part of this document outline of what the hells going on at this juncture in the sweet polite yet lightly scarred “lives” off this here these two chloroform twins Jan and Jon seeking an in-in-the-wall to entre into the architectural worksite on the corner known way back yas yaas waaaaay back as the trigger what fumbled off into the void of memorized existence the raw materials backhauling the first seed drop’t into the gulf of the Mass-Tragedy that raged up the eight blocks of the most of the main street knocking it out of economic commission and you do know what the hell THAT’s called why after all Willy (aka Albert and Victoria’s (evening wear required (WHERE’S MY GOD-DAMNED SUPPER!!) ) gently go, my townfolk, gently, eh ah, gently MANY LIVES BRUNCH FESTIVAL-POP PARTY pop PARTY |||||| so now that you’re equipped of what’s underlying this whole splat, know that Jan and Jon have not done anything you may have missed but only keep creeping on rightward searching for a way through that green wall (we think)
GRAVE AND LIFE
Hi guys! Hope you are well by the grace of Allah.
Friends, my religion is Islam and it is the fastest growing religion in the world. But many times I have heard some negative thoughts and rumors from the people of other religion.
Now I am here to fix those issues.
Introduction: Burial is a process where we have to bury people in soil after they die. But before burying we have to complete some more cultural rituals. First of all we have to wait, so that many people can see the dead man last time and can get support from other
people. Then we have to wash the body to make the body holy and clean. Then we took “khatiya” means a type of vehicle which is powered by four people by hand. Before burying we
have to say a prayer for that the dead person that Allah will forgive the man and give him/her Paradise. Then we bury the body with a white cloth named ‘Kafon’.
Negative thoughts: the negative thoughts of other people are:
1. Burial takes up too much space
2. Burial doesn't offer anyone benefits
3. Burial costs too much money for the land and plot
4. Burial is useless
Now I will tell you the advantages
Natural advantages: first of all we don’t have enough trees and the climate is changing every year and we are at risk. But when we make a family place for graves we will have a garden of trees. On the other hand the water level is decreasing every year because of concrete and human made structures. But when we have a place for graves we automatically make a place where the soil can absorb water. And also the dead body will serve as natural fertilizer for soil.
Emotional advantage: In many religions like Hinduism, they burn the body and throw the ashes into the Ganga river. Because of that fire there is air pollution and they can't feel the loved one again physically. But when it comes to a grave there aren't pollution problems. In fact it is healthy for nature. And you can share your feelings with the people in front of the grave. In fact if you are worried about the dead person, you can also pray for him/her in front of the
grave and the next generation will also recognize the dead people.
Now many people will tell that grave takes too much space but I have to tell you that it is renewable. In fact, in the soil of your property there is a buried person. It can be 50,100,150, 200 years old and that is true.
(Disclaimer: It is made only for education purpose. We are not doing hate speech. We are just telling what truth is.)
Thanks.
Mahmudul Hasan Fahim is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
My spring
You gave me a sign, my spring,
Bright green pasture fills the heart.
Everywhere the flower shines,
Scattered on the ground with smallpox.
Almonds bloomed one and all,
You gave me a sign, my spring.
A swallow flies over the sky,
You brought the freshness of spring.
Everywhere covered with beauty,
Enjoyment for young and old.
The children rejoice at this moment,
They still work hard.
Hear the laughter of the youth,
Everyone dances in a circle.
Drawing a rope and horse racing ,
They start the spring game.
The earth is bright today, with peace,
From entertainment and joy.
A burning sensation in every heart
Bring me, always my spring…
Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English.
In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya&;s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
