Read with Rapture!

Discussion in 'Art & Culture' started by Pollux V, Feb 23, 2003.

  1. Pollux V Ra Bless America Registered Senior Member

    I feel like posting some of my stuff. So feck off and tell me what you think. Please

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    It helps if you imagine that what follows is sung by a group of tenor sailors, at night, on the deck of a pirate ship or something...

    The water flutters
    Even as the sun dies
    Our wooden ship stutters
    Under what infinite skies
    The winds breathe; the Sea is ahead!
    To-night we soar, to-night we dread!

    A White moonrise
    Its face doth gleam
    Our hearts we feel aggrandize
    Our toils melt into dream
    Brown tendrils strain, maudlin water cries!
    Our Sails expand, our vessel flies!

    In Our Dreams

    I awake from lonely dreams
    Reality and fantasy, now togethered by seams
    Pull me from the earth; lift me to your face
    Let us narrow what betweens little space
    Can breath not wait while kisses smite?
    As Venus climbs in winter night?

    This frigid night with warmth we stave
    We smite until effulgent day
    Neither sleepy, neither tired
    Once taciturn minds ablaze with fire.
    The sun now rises, our separate lives spurn
    In reality we depart but in dreams we return

    The last one describes a pendant talking to a crazy guy who wants to go to this desert place called Barada to kill everyone. He comes from Ivluv, which is comparable to a paradise.

    From the hands of the trees
    Are the leaves thrown
    From the mouths of the titans
    Are the clouds blown
    Feel the sun’s gleams
    Now sweat and burn
    With terror it teems
    Baradan sojourn

    Infinity abound
    Vicinity of dreams
    Sand is the ground
    Air thick of screams
    Engage in your plight
    The dunes steepen
    Consciousness takes flight

    Bring the axe down, kill them all!
    Dodge their bullets, watch them fall!
    Split their swords, rent their armor
    Lope atop the sand
    Behead them in ardor
    Leave life behind, it means no more!
    Let them feel your wrath!
    Let them feel your gore!


    Their explosions have ceased
    Their tortures forever spurn
    Now end this tease
    To your homeland, return
    Ivlüv awaits!
    Its sky is still blue!
    Bring them their fates!
    Bring them their doom!
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  3. Gifted World Wanderer Registered Senior Member

    It seems Vanetor will make a good epic novel. Go for it.
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  5. Crystallized Blood Registered Member

    In Our Dreams is excellent...

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  7. Pollux V Ra Bless America Registered Senior Member

    Spurn is a favorite word of mine. It rhymes easily, sounds cool, and works well with whatever I can think of. In the three poems I posted there, I used it twice, I also have it on my current signature.

    I actually thought this thread was dead, I searched for it after Uberdragon said that everyone always responded to my stuff, when I thought the case was quite the opposite, but, I guess I was wrong.

    I'm fairly certain that the second draft of Venator--which "Song of the Pendant" is written for is finished and fully edited. I'd post it here, but it's twentysomething pages long and I think that's a bit too much. Then again, the moderator here visits only a few times a year, so I doubt he'd mind....

    Please, please!! More comments! More in-depth commentary!
  8. Pollux V Ra Bless America Registered Senior Member

    An exerpt from Intertwine

    Vadaina. The sand beneath his feet, squished between his toes. The warmth on his face, on his sparsely clothed body. He was back. Somehow, by some will of Terra, Salax returned to the place of his fantasies. The palm trees glimmered in the sunlight and swayed with the wild winds, the sky was ripe with basking clouds, and the sun was setting atop a horizon of orange. The gentle chorus of waves splashed behind him. He took off in a jog, then increased his pace to a run, his legs thumping into the sand, how he loved the sand—his first memories never lacked mention of it. The beach had always been an integral part of his leisure life. A life without it—a life in the snow, was unthinkable to him now, and luckily, for him, the thought did not draw him back.

    He rounded the beach, never got tired, lungs never burned too much. He would find the Politan, the capital of Vadaina, sooner or later. He missed it so much, he felt only a burn in his chest, a longing for return to a paradise, a place of his dreams that he had been away from so long. It slowly drifted away, the wind whipped up and the sand surrounded him, he could see no more—it stung his eyes, the vision of it blurred and the warmth fled. Now he was drawn back to reality. Vadaina was gone, only a figment to wet dry eyes.

    He had been following the tracks for days. Five days. He had rested now and then, his dreams—of Hara and of Vadaina tortured him once again. But he had an obligation for vengeance. And his friends—they might still be alive, Élan or Drazir or any number of troopers from his contingent. Their fates were not set entirely; Salax kept repeating this to himself, his mind forming meager sentences at every break between fantasies, every break to reality. His mind revolved around love, and around desolation. The mountains frowned steeply at him. Above, Sauria churned. The cold bit at whatever was exposed to it. The days lengthened. Salax’s mind grew weary of repeating the same fantasies, the same smiles. Soon the inside of his skull was as silent as the rocky crags that surrounded him. Five days became ten. Ten became fifteen. The food he carried grew haggard and stale, he ate little, he desired little. Soon he was no better than an automaton, no conscious thought swayed his movements from the stomped path of simian footprints. Salax’s mind had gone elsewhere.

    The sand died down and the sun burned anew. It was very hot. The sand hurt his feet. Salax ran, again, toward the capital of Vadaina, Politan, rounding pillars of palm trees, the forest alive with the calls of animals and birds, the ocean whispering its euphonious secrets to the beach and to those that would listen. The salty spray hardened on his cheeks. The capital neared—there it was. Small, sandstone abodes dotted the outer rim of it, quiet streets harbored singing mothers and playing children, all of them with their feet bare. Such relaxation could be found nowhere else. He passed through this place, the people turning their heads to watch him speed by; none of them noticing that he was their beloved lord. He streaked by a dark haired youth of only a few pairs of years, and he ruffled his head with his fingers and laughed aloud, his heart straining and leaping beneath his chest. The buildings became taller and went from brown to white, their windows bridged by strands of wire with thin clothing hanging precariously. He arrived in the center pavilion, the red tiles guiding him past a tall obelisk. He whirled through throngs of children and parents and students playing with the birds that would tease them, they flocked about in the air in great swarms. He climbed the steps and flew into the inner courtyard, the arms of the palace encompassing him. They were tall and pillared, upper levels sported stone tablets from the many hundreds of years of human history the island had endured.

    His feet carried him up more and more stairs, past officials, past tourists, past workers and past more children. He arrived at one of the upper marble floors and ran inside the building, his eyes greeted by a tall dome of great frescoes depicting the history of the universe, and of the world. Past statues basking in sunlight he ran, past the state rooms and government arenas in which he would work and pour over. Paintings greeted him and sneered at him—he ignored them. He was inside the palace. He neared the private area, went through a guarded door (his soldiers recognized him and smiled), and up more stairs, these ones a great deal steeper. Pools of private waters greeted him, they gurgled under fountains, and above, through a circle in the ceiling, the blue sky shone.

    He reached the topmost level and passed through his rooms, couches, writings and books and miniature libraries, and arrived at the outer balcony, where comfortable chairs overlooked the whole city, the perfervid forest encircling it, and the billowing, azure ocean beyond. The wind was steady and strong here; the flapping of fabric was fairly audible. He turned, and she was there.

    Laying in white pants and in a white blouse, behind dark glasses her hair whirled about in the wind. Her eyes were open, but he could not see them. Her lips grinned, her cheeks grew. He rushed to her and took her in his arms and kissed her, then, felt his heart soar, felt his pulse quicken more so.

    Thumping made him realize that he had lost track of time. His eyes blinked, refocused—he was awake again. The mountain path had thinned considerably; he was now on the edge of a cliff with hardly enough space to step. The snow was thick, it went up to his ankles, and crunched with each step. The wind blasted his face, his eyes blurred with tears; he wiped them away, and peered into the landscape.

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