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Literary Feud Among - Pt 1
Prelude to what…..
I see you, / you / yes, come into my……
laboratory of alchemist mystical languaging.
where arsenic spills into the whirlpool of thought
and savage syntax shatter like glass on concrete.
Where Titans clash their pens
both spear and shield
signifier and signified in eternal dance.
What truths lie hidden in
the battle's tolling roll call.
Just what secrets do these conflicts yield to
The death of their author.
The heart bleeds blue and black ink.
watch as the mind screams suppressed in a hyperreal silence.
each drop a universe of unspoken pain.
(marginalia: Is this poem writing itself? Or are we writing it together
dear reader our souls intertwined in this literary labyrinth?)
This poem is not here.....
You are not reading this???
The author is dead!!!!
Long live the text /
a rising falcon from the fog-enshrouded
mountain of
lost.....intent.....
Enter the picturesque scene--Hemingway / Fitzgerald / Faulkner.....
State what is your Nature of Reality ~
We enter a smoke-filled Parisian café time t I c k s s l o w I n g
giants three of prose locked in partisan war
funny their Twitter feuds / would have broken /
the internet a digital Colosseum of words
scarred by trenches Hemingway his pain shows
brutal, life's truth needs no metaphor; for you see
I write. I am bleeding. It's u n i f o r m.
his ice-berg theory floats in a sea of minimalist prose.
sentences each a scar. each period. a bullet ~ lodged in memory.
jazz age's golden boy / Fitzgerald / famed for flappers feuds with friends
But deep in the night, green light still gleams
Your spare prose misses the dream's importance;
different are the rich: adjectives four-dimensional they have
words shimmer like his vintage champagne bubbles
effervescent yet, bittersweet
Faulkner haunted / hunted by Southern Ghosts breathlessly adds
words winding his river flowing endlessly weight baring carrying
generations of sins unspoken and dreams unfulfilled / meandering ~
through the kudzu-choked landscape of memory and regret
chaos in beauty and meaning bloom
Like magnolias in the mist of breaking dawn
sound and fury he's signifying everything
choiring voices each chant a life a history a sorrow
Is reality dark stark
or a tangled poison vine.....
Do we carve paths
or lose ourselves in thickets divine T+
The truth ~ a chameleon changing with each blink of the mind's eye???
feel as the whiskey burns The typewriter clicks The past never dies
each keystroke a heartbeat each sip a memory f a d i n g
Hemingway's ice-berg theory collides, crashes, with Fitzgerald's green-light sight
and Faulkner's stream in a whiskey-soaked sea of literary might
The acrid smoke of Gauloises mingles with whiskey breath
as egos large as their royalty checks are small clash in logomachy
A battlefield of words where ink flows like blood and ideas are the spoils of war
(Marginalia: Friends turned rivals their words eternal light
This stanza deconstructs itself as you read
Watch as the letters rearrange a provocative literary meaning)
Step forward Ms. Woolf and Mr. Bennett
Tell me of the Female Experience or lack thereof...
room a sanctuary Virginia in deep contemplation
Where stream of consciousness can flow f r e e l y
The yellow wallpaper peels, revealing layers of self
of woman.....
of writer....
of human...
A reveling tribulation of identity each layer a world unto itself
world of Bennett's externals tightly wrought
Clashes with her inner reality / her thoughts
His characters trapped in amber beautiful but static
You paint the virulent shell, she cries, quill in hand
But miss the pearl of great price / that lies within
The lighthouse beam sweeps 'cross the sand
Illuminating what has existed always been
once overlooked.....
Her words a tide washing away the sand castles of convention
He scowls / scoffs dismissively Your musings? Castles built on sand
Structure Ms. Woolf is where true tales began
A proper story neat and planned
Is how the reader's heart we win
His pen a mason's trowel building walls that both protect and confine
In this end times of literary minds a larger war:
Who defines what a woman's voice is her .. very .. core.....
The battlefield: the blank page the stakes: the soul itself
The clock strikes The pen scratches Time passes
A room of one's own fills with unspoken truths
Each tick a revolution
each scratch a declaration of independence
W
O O
O L
L F
F O
O R
M
S
This section shapes itself into a lighthouse guiding readers through the storm of words
Feel the beam of insight cutting through the fog of prejudice
When the page decides to turn with the wind
a new chapter arises with part 2
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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