Poem: Dream Theories

If dreams were physical,
I should think they'd be crystals -
Only somewhat clear.
They are as soft and as hard as a glockenspiel's notes.
Oneiric ocean waves lap at the mind's feet
And tease the Eye with knowledge of beyond.
What is a dream, anyhow?
Is it real, and this the long subconscious excursion?
Dreams are an elf's breath, a dragon's tears.
What blue, astral, heavenly cloud could compare
To dark mental forests and speaking birds?
The winds of mountain seas are calling.

Poem: The Queen of Sprites

Her Majesty Queen Darkpetal

Of the sprites of Nimbling Wood

Has yet to ascend to full spritehood.

She must find her namesake,

A bird’s tooth, a snake’s eyelid,

And the marrow of a human

To become wholesome.

Created by a dragon’s tear

Striking a blue rose on summer solstice,

She is incomplete, but no sprite yet

Has become whole; she is the first of the kind,

And will become the first whole one.

The Writer vs. The Writing

"The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood." - Jean Cocteau

   You have clipped my wings

   And now I cannot fly.

   I am a lonely bird

   Imprisoned in this cage.

- "Clipped Wings" by me. I didn't think the poem was long enough for its own post, so I thought I'd include it here. Of course, it's also on Figment.

My Creative Writing teacher from this past school year made a post a while back (which I just discovered) about how a girl's parents were worried about her mental well-being due to her dark poetry and bloody stories. Mr. Nantz's reaction is equal to mine: while there is such a thing as artistic expression, what comes up on paper - or screen - by no means necessarily reflects the writer. I mean, has Thomas Harris been arrested for cannibalism? People often wonder if Stephen King is disturbed and/or insane. I even had a therapeutic instructor once who told me not to write dark things. I didn't listen, of course. She also said that she appreciates King from a distance; she would not go to his signing for fear of his slashing her throat. With all due respect to Miss Anonymous, that's codswallop. This is someone whom also believes that gays choose their sexuality and that it is wrong. I guess if she chooses to appreciate me, it will be from a distance.

Anyhow, I think it's good to be able to seamlessly blend expression with fictive feelings. After all, fiction is called fiction for a reason, and poetry can reflect fictional viewpoints. Mr. King is one of my all-time favorite writers, right up there with Jo Rowling and Mary Shelley, and I have no issue with him as a human being. I know that he once had a drinking problem, but that's not my business. That's one cost of fame: the whole world monitors your affairs.

Be yourself!

Signed,

Daniel Cole Phelan

Lewis Mason Winter

Charles Evan Blackwood

Summer at Last

So this is it: I am free. I plan to read more than ever now, and I am already making my way through The Best of Cemetery Dance. Tonight my mother, sisters, and I watched a quarter of Stephen King's The Stand - very good teleplay with a rather scary villain. I walked most of the way to my mother's house today, which is saying something; it's a good way from my school and I would have probably gone all the way if not for my book-bag weighing down on my back and threatening to break it. Ah, I won't have to worry about that for a while.

I counted the library books I have out, and I believe I have exactly twenty-five. I hope to read at least most of them this summer. One was a quick read, a galley from Printz called Requiem: Poems from the Terezin Ghetto. It was quite sad and disturbing, but I appreciated the poetry.

Speaking of books, I might move my reviews to this blog and keep one after all. Also, "The Worlds of Winter" is old - how about "The Winter Journal"? (With the former I needed a title and didn't know what to call it).

I might be volunteering at a local library this summer. We'll see how that turns out.

I must close the journal now, but I shall post again soon!

Au revoir,

Lewis