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Panageric Objectives Enforcing Metaphorical Sentiments

Poetry is music on paper; a painting in words; a canvas of velvet; a
calligraphy of in stanzas, emotional, spiritual, psychological. A
serene mosaic of pathos and diligence; a dazzling symphony of metaphors and
analogies; an overlapping collage of allegories and anecdotes. It's a
sprinkle of harmony, depression, pain and love.
With this pen and paper, the writer begins his task; the knight sets
off on his journey. The sunrise is the pen and the brush, the horizon its
canvas, the skyline its borders and the sunset the strokes.
Each letter transforms into butterflies, scattering like a deck of
cards flickered in the air, dispersing like fireflies, taking flight for the
first time. Similar to soft pillows of cotton flowers blown in the wind.
They nibble on rose petals and hummingbirds sipping and bathing in nectar.
A sweetness that cannot be captured by any letters of the alphabet or
any word in a novel.
Poetry can seize the unfathomable; withstand the unbearable; redeem
the unforgivable; trust the doubtable and embrace the uncertain.
It can build castles out of magic, create kingdoms out of handfuls
of soil, waterfalls with just drops of water, gardens with a single
flower and the skies with only a breath of oxygen.
It makes you see the music and listen to the dance. It merges your
being into the fibres and paint of a portrait. It breathes life into your
heart and fills your breath with sound.
It gives knowledge to the brain and wisdom to your mind and the
insight to tell the difference.
It's a bridge between the imagination and dreams.
The largest house ever built was the mind; the largest door ever
opened was the imagination. Where creativity is the pearl gleaming like cat's
eyes at midnight, nestled inside the clam's velvet haven undisturbed.
It's the wind in your sails, the sunlight piercing through the ocean's
surface in narrow golden veils, shimmering off the scales of schools
of fish tagging in formation. Where the seas flow through the Heavens, and
stars dance around the sun and planets, orbitting around each other in
precision synchronization of a Swiss watch or piano keys made of smooth, cold
Language is a ribbon and knowledge is a bow, wrapping a gift that's a
window for the reader and a door for the writer.

I bleed ink.


The following comments are for "P.O.E.M.S."
by Eddieeaves

I'd like to start out by saying I'm not ragging on your piece in particular. It's good, truly. Though I'm just disheartened at how people view fantasy these days. It seems like their falling further and further from what the genre of fantasy really is. This piece should be posted in poetry or something, I mean it's describing poetry isn't it? There's not a single fantasy element about it. It seems that people are beginning to see fantasy as poetry and their own dreams like sitting on some beack that actually exists. What fantasy needs to get back to being is knights from foreign realms questing to slay the dragon, obtain the magical item, and scheme in the dim light of drunken bar. I took my crack at fantasy, but never had any results, so ultimately quit, because it's not the focus of mosts people's reading preference. Oh well, it seems like TRUE fantasy is a lost hope.

( Posted by: ArturHawking [Member] On: September 12, 2005 )

Fantasy was the closest category I could find. I just didn't want to label this poem simply as poetry, even though the title is called poems; it's much more than that. It has a lot of elements to it that the category alone could not grasp.

I'm glad you enjoyed it.

( Posted by: eddieeaves [Member] On: September 12, 2005 )

and once again, very good
and once again i wasn't ragging on your piece, now i kind of wish i would have just made this a post all together but, i just chose yours.

( Posted by: ArturHawking [Member] On: September 12, 2005 )

I know you're not ragging on my piece and I know where you're coming from. There just wasn't a sufficient category; fantasy intrigued me and voila.

( Posted by: Eddieeaves [Member] On: September 13, 2005 )

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