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raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
JC Lucas Oct 2013
I’ve been going to this boxing gym and training every week.
And everyone there is fighting something
You can see in their
Eyes
They’re punching their dad
Or they’re punching
Whoever their wife is sleeping with
Or they're punching
Their kids who ignore them
Or they’re punching
Themselves.
Their boss
Their job
Their alcohol problem
Their poverty
And every week we get to fight our problems together
And we’re exploding inside.
What?
You can’t fight your problems?
It’s not only that I can.
I will.
And do.
Because crying alone isn’t good enough
Because all that fire you build up inside you has to go somewhere
Or it’ll burn you alive.
So you throw it into the heavy bag
Or into the guy you’re sparring
Or into the ground you run on.


We’re all fighting something
So what about you?
What are you fighting that’s so ******* important?
No, don’t tell me.
Tell that heavy bag.
He listens.
He listens when your wife doesn’t give a ****
He listens when it doesn’t even matter
Tell these padded mitts.
That one-two punch says more than a twenty-four volume encyclopedia
And speaks more concisely than Churchill or Hemmingway or Ghandi ever did.
Don’t tell me how it feels.
Don’t even try.
Let that punching bag know.
Because you know he’s listening.
And he doesn’t have anything else more important to do.
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
                or SQUAT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
                or HOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
                or TROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
                or COT,
        The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
                with a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
                or BLOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
                or PLOT,
        At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
                or SHOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
                GAROTTE,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
                a JOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
                or WHAT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
                or a LOT,
        For the Akond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
                or a DOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
                SHALLOTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
                or a SCOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
                or a GROTT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
                or a ***,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
                or ROT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
                or a KNOT.
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
                or NOT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
                in a YACHT,
        The Akond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
        Is the Akond of Swat?
JJ Hutton May 2014
Poured into the tight pants,
the grey ones with the zipper
that's afraid of heights, and
guess what? They're really
wrinkled or very wrinkled
or **** wrinkled--but they're
the tight grey ones, assumed
the thighs and calves would
handle the ironing.
Ten minutes late,
usually more. The clock
in the car, the red beat-up
'02 Cavalier, is not behind
or ahead an hour, no it's
set to some vague time
because lateness has
replaced time so why
even worry. Blood pressure, etc.
Spray on the cologne kept
in the car. Could look
up ingredients in cologne
to describe the smell
but that would take
away a little something.
So say: it smells really good
or very good or **** good--
and move on.
Walk inside, unbathed and
sun burnt--well not completely
unbathed. Washed the hair
because it's a puffy, erratic
downer otherwise.
It's all about appearance,
the bosslady said when
she made the hire.
Slipped a little.
Big woop.
Cold called the Southside
Veterinary Clinic.
They'll allow a visit.
Pack it all in the bag,
the mouse pads,
the koozies, the actual
thing to be sold:
SHEENY PUPPY, some
really heavy or very heavy
or **** heavy duty
coat treatment for canines.
The first one is on me, is said
as the package is handed over.
The vet wouldn't buy. Not then.
Probably not ever.
Ate an eighty-calorie bag of cookies.
Drank some coffee.
Stopped at the gas station, the
Conoco on 15th and Kelly,
and couldn't decide between
the fun size or the party size.
This is called the spectrum of grief.
Bought a pack of cigarettes.
Smoked three really quick
or very quick or **** quick,
like Mom might show up any
second and then tossed the pack
and the lighter.
Done with those. Forever.
This time. Or that time.
There was $20.89 in the
checking account and
a fresh girlfriend reminding
that today is one month.
Dinner. Dinner and wine.
$20.89.
You can sell only if you believe in the product.
Be really blunt or very blunt or **** blunt.
Stress is an art.
Create FUD (Fear, uncertainty and doubt).
It’s all about the presentation.

She's fresh and funny and so
self-conscious when she eats
spaghetti. Can't get
by with spaghetti
for the one-month.
No. No. No.
Be on fire and inspiring.
If you don’t know the answer, ask a question.
Answer inquiries concisely and loudly.
Humor is ****.
You can always be better. You can never be worse.

Call Mom, donate plasma or take the Xbox back.
Is this one forever?
Does forever mean dinner and wine
are necessary?
Or does forever mean that
the spectacle is frivolous?
In the cabinet at work
someone left blueberry bagels.
There's a microwave and a tub
of margarine that only
recently expired.
Marieta Maglas Oct 2015
(Cruz and Pedra were talking in the bedroom. Cruz had started to recover and his wound began to heal.)


(Pedra said,)



'' Pedro uses the morality to achieve his immoral,
Hidden goals, but you provoke the people to become
Immoral, considering them to be hypocrites; '' ''don't quarrel!
Criticism is something you cannot avoid; they're just ****.


(Cruz continued,)



You're the one who breaks any spiritual barrier
To overcome some secret limitations; you like
This concept of master-slave morality; you're a harrier.
I'm an old man, and I don't like that, sometimes, you're ready to strike.



(Cruz continued,)



Carla is your antipode; '' ''Do I spy? Did you question Ivan
About passing such a barrier between two powerful
Countries to do business? '' ''Their run just means survivin'.
I admit that I'm very curious; '' ''You think it's wonderful! ''



(Cruz said while smiling,)



''I want to change everything around and do not know how.''
''If you were not so morose and introverted, maybe
You would succeed; '' ''I'm not an orator, but I'm still alive now.
I speak too briefly and concisely, but I love you, baby.''



(Pedra replied,)



'' You're a very good observer and you think objectively.''
''I consider that you've found my way of being in the world
And this is why our marriage works so well; you're effectively
My friend; our life didn't fall apart when the lies were hurled.''


(Pedra said,)


''We have an organized family, and even when
We are not together, we are a team; '' '' I understand
That you have learned from the power of Aphra Behn's pen,
But, when you are with me, your ideas lose command.''



(Pedra replied,)



'' Maya appreciates my knowledge about botany
And history; '' '' She's a lonely woman, an unlucky one.
Between some passengers, she created a dichotomy.''
''Did you ask her some odd questions as you had done with Ivan? ''



(Cruz replied,)



''Maya is a war survivor and she learns to overcome
The poverty; '' ''she's an introvert but friendly and humane.
Although old, she works well and fast while needing to become
A talented cook; she's healthy for her age; doesn't live in vain.''



(Cruz said,)



''She needs to manage her anxiety by trying to control
Her reality; she views this ability as a matter
Of survival; '' '' she appeals to the evil powers for her goal.
To make this force be an energy field she uses the water.



(Pedra continued,)



She's a widow and her brother, Naimah, is rather clumsy.
He's not strong enough to overcome the difficulties in life.''
''How to keep fear under control she likes to study
And she's a kind of quack using plants to cure this inner strife.''



(Pedra replied,)



''She had fled war and chose the water as the primordial
Element instead of accepting the fire; then, those forces
Followed her to set this ship on fire 'cause that danger was mortal.
She thinks that these elements feed on her chakras sources.''



(Cruz replied,)



''The water quenches the fire, and when the water is dangerous,
There is no escape; '' ''Carla told me that Maya talked to her dead.
She's afraid of exorcisms; '' ''she cannot endanger us.''
''To bring Maya to Allah, Geraldine has a wise head.''



(Cruz replied,)



'' Geraldine has been pregnant while needing help; she seems to be
A fighter, but in reality, she's peaceful, frail and helpless.
You are a totally different person; '' ''no loss is known in me.
To help Surak after abandoning her kids was useless.''



(Cruz replied,)



'' Maybe her children are strong, but her nephew needs help.''
'' Maybe she needs purity to get her protective energy
While entering the unknown; '' ''stop turning my brain to kelp!
It's intuition. If I wasn't in that gun-room, we would die.''



(Cruz began to tell her about the person who had saved him from death.)



(To be continued…)



Poem by Marieta Maglas
In Sicily Aeschylus agonized on the island of Gela, like an isthmus between two seas that led him to the God Dyonisius through the Hadic Speleothemes, here this god entered the skené of Euripides and Sophocles, under the support of Dyonisius and the father of Aeschylus; Euphorion of Eleusis. He was on his way to Gela when he was rammed and crossed after the temporary repercussion of Offensive on Salamis, meeting Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi as they prepared to head to the Cavern of Dionysius. The most unlikely of this parallel sequence stems from Dyonisius's spell of necromancy as he summons alongside them to lead them into the cavern. The scene or triple skené became feasible when Vernarth bilocated three times next to them scalding the campfire from the edges of the Profitis as if it were a lantern that flashed micro lightning, to reconvert the bilocated lights of Syracuse with those of Patmos simultaneously. Vernarth rises from the northeast edge of the Koilon of his theater and leads them with his incantation:

First Scene Dyonisius: “he was coming with his car of Thespis, with sparks from Catania, where he noticed that ***** of lightning appeared flying from the ether, and above them a triple frequency that acclaimed joining Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi. In concomitance, he rushes to Syracuse traveling at high speed, rising to the third light of the Menorah from left to right, in such a way that his horses squandered the fire on the golden grass.

Second scene Aeschylus: “he was going to Gela, brooding along the way with his reckless time, freezing the will that called him at that moment, and that yelled at him like Anthropokairós, deriving from his remaining spiritual memory, which warned him to do what made in a dreadful deleterious past. Avoiding him with their stiff arms when the ***** of lightning, they fidgeted to enter the scene of Salamis where he dealt with the Achaemenides.

Third Scene Wonthelimar: “he was with Vlad Strigoi, and this one next to him smelled of sulfur that he experienced with the closeness of some of them, who had already had a deal of caste and exultant existential drama. They were swiftly crewing with their transient elytra when they received the ***** of lightning, which were energetically prodding them"

Aeschylus was going to agonize Gela, after not doing it in Salamis, with some disappointment and supposedly having revealed the Mysteries of Eleusis, but he was not! Eagerly spurred on suddenly shook him when Vernarth bilocated appeared before him, broadcasting episodes of the sixteenth century, concisely from Fray Luis de León, regarding the Song of Songs who appeared from the ether passing through the triumvirate of lightning bolts that had him blown Vernarth, to show him his epitome of quantum parapsychology. When both were subjected, Aeschylus briefly understood that he perceived the judgment of Fray Luis de León by the Inquisition, for his ****** and philosophical expressions of character with his elevated prose. The dramatic anthology of Aeschylus, directed him to his Necropolis of Pachyderm in Gela, by abandoning the pairs of legs and arms of him. In the meantime from the agon or contest, Dyonisius snatched his Kairos as a singular man, and commanded the Hadic Speleothemes from where Wonthelimar came, to refer to him, just as he did with Euripides and Sophocles with the everlasting Frogs of Aristophanes. The parallel sequence of the trilogy characterized in Aeschylus continues, to end in the skené or culminating period, to receive on his head the inspiration of Vernarth's ball of lightning, already united with the three parts of him! The three scenes are combined with the interference and parallelism of Dyonisius, who exhorts them to go with them through the Speleothemes, thus making sure to save their celebrant souls and their anti-myths, who would unravel with this satirical drama with the batrachians, as a Vernarth's invitation to shake the destiny of each one of them towards a caustic reality, which breaks the man close to his agony, and in his proportionate death revealed as an existential tragedy close to the Anthropokairós omega. Therefore the destinies were stressed in three scenes that would be coupled with that of the axis of support of a death not specified by several that would continue with the same perenniality, in the company of Euripides and Sophocles, with the ballads of the batrachians of Dyonisius to enchant them as subterfuge and didactics, so that once they are captured in the gallery of the cave, and that they would be convinced with greater persuasion. The three scenes were made as one under the precept of Dyonisius, to adhere to them in the next before the Spinalonga parapsychology room, where three scenes would make tragedies and fables, which would follow from the throne of the stands with thousands of deceased who wanted to hear and re-listen from the underworld of the Speleothemes, going towards the Viaduct of Patmos.
Dyonisius Tespis
Left Foot Poet Jun 2017
one would think these old owls might have learned
a hoot of wisdom, and shut off the bright lights,
concisely concession con-seceded to the simple *******
of the union of the night and moon, its sleep crowning ownership
of these particular hours

let me not false claim that I speak for all the grandfathers,
nor raise myself as a caesar among them,
for there are too many shrieking claimants of all knowing,
know-nothings these troubling days

no longer do we revere or agree upon
the certainty of any incontrovertible self-evident,
truths and beauty we from early ancestors inherited,
fore-seeing the risky possibilities of a freedom-less future,
a melting planet without enough air or water to be shared
for our fast contentedly, asleep babies

no, no, I speak only for myself, and those few million of grandfathers who message each other in the wee hours about silly trivial concerns that keep them awake and writing foolish poems
3:08am nml
Diane May 2016
His mouth was a nuclear leak
     (he fried his brain when he was 17)
And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin
     (and that is as far as he ever grew up)
Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can
     (he’s amused by stick figure animation)
Hear them rupture the seams of my insides
     (and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;)
My brain thankfully, is still intact
     (his car, his clothes, his kids…and me)
Fighting this fight heroically
     (my god, to be one of his children)                                      
Anxiously looking over my shoulder
     (he can’t keep a nanny for very long)
Refuting his demeaning accusations
     (no one stays in his life who is not on payroll)
******* Narcissist
     (but even they all quit eventually)
Still forgiving myself for letting it happen
     (oblivious that his entourage disrespects him)
This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath
     (he is incapable of giving or deserving trust)
Disdained my beliefs and philosophies
     (he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986)
Demanded my selflessness without return
     (and the older woman he ****** in high school)
Reduced me to dismissible arm candy;
     (immature alcoholic tantrums lie just)
The missing feature of his pride
     (below the surface of every conversation)
And I can’t shake this feeling
     (which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses)
That I have truly met evil face to face
     (or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims)
Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped  
     (his highest dream is to own a personal servant)  
Except for the residue
     (explains his demands clearly and concisely)
Adhering like burned on soap ****
     (believes money and a big **** make him a man)
I feel like he will never, ever really be gone
     (his reptilian brain controls every move)
That he will still try to own me or make me
     (“I don’t want to be an *******, I’m just really good at it”)
Pay for refusing to surrender my soul
     (funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)
Reece Dec 2012
The east bequeaths us life and light.
Many rise from slumber, in agony. Many greet daybreak with compassion and hold the world close as if it were an old friend. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. A holy cacophony of exuberant sonances.

A million more flashing lights surround us. Another lonely room illuminated with images of pills, sugary snacks and loan sharks.  Disillusioned and malnourished we tread softly on thin plates of ice, ever drifting further from the source of life.
A man flies to Botswana, another to Yamalia. Forever in search of truth, history, refinement and happiness. One lady prays to God, another preys on a new victim. One man dies, another is born. One person writes poetry while another deconstructs the economic and social barriers that prevent many from ideals that, not one man, but many people search for.
To say I am all these people is lie. To say we are all the same would be a bigger lie. But to say we all seek truth is undeniable.

In the west, the world rests.
The people of pain lay their tender heads on pillows of self doubt whilst their counterparts caress the soft jaw line of the heavenly death. To sleep once more in fleeting rest. The lights of the city shine bright, stars in the day and of the night. Each soft noise amplified tenfold in the vacant sprawling streets, tinged orange and creaking like so many spirits tied to the eternal noose.

Tell me please, did the virginal angel take your hand and walk you through the narrow corridor of dreams and death? Did she tell of of your fate, your future and your meaning? Did she kiss your solemn lips and allow you to place your head to her *****?

O mother of the Earth, tell me your grandiose plan. Am I a cog placed concisely in the machinery of life or am I merely a superfluous button on the vest of some ancient God?

Spoken once in dissonant transient prayers. The mind incapable of rest continues to conjure images so appealing and yet so ghastly. Flight and failure, love and despair. Each one fades upon the first light of morning.
Waking in despondency,
fingers smeared across red, stinging eyes,
thick crimson lines betray your mind.
The first lie is told as we raise our heavy heads,
allow the light from the east to guide you on your daily path,
and let the lies cascade from windows, rooftops, trees and great unholy structures.


                                                                  I lie to myself each morning.
I am you, you are simultaneously  him and her, she is I and I am her. He is I, I am him and he shall always be we.
The angels speak of all their plans in great halls of marble and ice. The swords and shields of a million warriors line the walls. Books of a million more great people are the furnishings in such a palace. The great waterfalls provide the purist of refreshment to the guests of the seraph. Mountains and catacombs alike, are the ornaments of this great hearth. A billion buzzing beings attract the attention of a distant messenger.
                                                                      For today we shall learn.
                                                                                      ∞
Marieta Maglas Sep 2015
(Chiara was talking to Francesca in their shared bedroom.)


Chiara said,



''I like to watch you painting while playing the piano.
We're both passionate about painting and music. I think this
Is why we like each other; '' '' you can sing the high soprano.''
''We shared this love of Arturo; as he died, so passed our bliss.''



Francesca replied,



'' What did you say about sharing? I was only his daughter.
''I loved him enormously; I wished to give birth to his
Girl; '' ''Your dream was like the image of a star in the water,
Because he wanted a boy, and you should be some kind of wiz




To give birth to his boy; '' ''All my valuable books about
New discoveries and religion burned on that carrack.''
''I'm sorry to hear that; I liked them; there is beyond all doubt
That our spiritual Eden is secured from the devil's attack.



Francesca continued,



I've thought of the book you had read as I've thought of a visual
Art form; that monk and that nun were in contact only by
Knowing God to get an equilibrium; that biblical
Space was like a ship never sinking, where the people didn't die.''


Chiara replied,



''I've tried to understand God; we must be pure to meet Him.''
''They are educated through prayers to love God and to
Maintain their virginity; I thought that love was for a whim,
When it was based on attraction, not for a marriage; '' ''It's true.''




'' Love must be rational to develop over time while
Finding fulfillment in being a mother; '' '' These mothers
Are devoted givers; there's a lot of bliss in their smile.''
''A husband must love his wife very much; '' '' Closer than brothers,




The man and the woman in togetherness must live,
But no love can save you if you do not want to be saved.
I think you run into the art's world your mother's death to forgive.''
''If my dad had really loved her, she would not have died.''




'' Your thinking is totally wrong; your father was not
Orpheus to save her from her inferno of life.
She didn't accept her human condition; he loved her allot.
You're like your mother while denying everything in this strife




With your fate; Lucca made a mistake when he married you.''
'' Indeed, I did not feel free. Maybe it is because I was
Forced to marry him while my sufferings were painted new.
Why was Lucca talking with Ivan? '' '' I tell you why, it was because



Chiara continued,



Ivan was released from the position of a serf.''
‘‘Lucca wanted to know the mindset of the exploited class.''
''As a diplomat, while walking down the end of the Athens wharf,
Lucca studied Ivan to know if he was cruel or crass.



Chiara continued,



As a wealthy man with a political power,
A decision-making capacity and some business skills
To avoid some complications he had a desire.''
'' He had charming manners and talked concisely about rents and bills.''



Chiara replied,



'' All his life he had worked to increase his wealth and to make
A career in diplomacy; this is why he was forty
Years old when he asked you to be his wife; he wanted to take
Care of us; he paid your father's remaining debt payments




And this trip while wanting the stability of our family.
And how did you reward him while rejecting him
Or being cold as an ice when not doin' what comes naturally.''
''Chiara, he needed a positive image; '' '' your tears are dim.''



Francesca continued,



'' He took time to know his new family away from any
Social obligations; '' ''your father needed a groom like him.''
''Why? '' '' Because he had lived with his memories, much and many.
Der Eyck’s instrument is not new; his memory was slim.




He took refuge in the game world of the cards and destroyed
His property; '' '' But those who played with him were your friends; why
Didn't you save him? '' ''I couldn't do anything; to avoid
This misfortune was impossible; your love will set awry




If I tell you a secret I hide for fear of hurting you.''
Chiara's eyes gave Francesca a real scare, '' I know he was ill.''
''Your father didn't love you as you thought; '' ''How can this be true?
''He didn't care of you while passionately playing cards till



Chiara continued,



He lost his fortune and wanted to commit the suicide.
Do you realize that we could live as poor women
While lacking any support and having nightmares inside?
I've told your father about Lucca; he sent me to you then.




Lucca was the son of my friend and she told me her little
Secret; I thought Lucca would help consolidate the debt
Of your father with a loan, but his intention was a riddle.
I had to convince you to marry this man; a roulette




Was your entire father's life; all I could do was to listen
To my husband; the gold was more important to him than
You have ever been; '' ''Before the neighbors could find what was missin'
I had to marry; but when my father was rich, he had



Many relationships, he could borrow from one of his friends.''
''Dear, his relations have deteriorated because he was
No longer a reliable man; '' '' friendship never ends.
Why did Lucca want to marry me? '' '''He trusted my word; applause! ''


(Francesca started to cry. She had a conscience. Chiara was her benefactress.)

(…To be continued…)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Wekoronshei Nov 2011
I sat smoking a cigarette one day
on a bench inside the local park,
and some old, holier-than-thou type
came up to me, spouting some
nonsense about how "Those could ****
you, you know."
And I replied, concisely,
"Oh, I know."

"But," I continued,
"so do cars and guns
and terrible puns. So does
every poke, cut and scrape;
every bone you break;
every breath you take
and glass you drink;
every single thing you think;
every time you blink;
every scratch
and ray of sunlight you catch;
every pill you're swallowin'
and moment of sorrow you wallow in;
every religion you could be followin';
every word you speak
and meal you eat--
even walking on your own two feet.
So do hopes and votes,
popes and sore throats,
rhetoric and prose.
Everything kills, my friend,
though we only see it at the end--
and by then it's been too long
and we can no longer sing songs
of our discoveries and reveries,
and treasuries and pleasure-ies,
and best friends forever-ies.
The way I see it,
ain't no reason livin' if'n I'm givin'
two ***** 'bout all that;
I've already tossed in my hat."
Holly Salvatore Mar 2014
W
When he says he wants a family
and I say I want everything is it
too much to pluck the moon from
the sky and carry it in my back pocket?
Rather than his hand there I like
the feeling of not being pregnant
I like hot air balloon rides and
sinking into the earth after rain
when he talks about the future
it's a pie chart and a clearly labeled
and concisely drawn graph and
when I talk about my dreams
in the morning they are vapors
and LSD my words mean absolutely
nothing I weigh less than a slice of
bread mostly meaning happens in
between things or when I hear Paul
Simon whispering lightning in my ear.

*Our children would be green-eyed monsters
Just imagining an old friend
Mike Hulstrom Sep 2017
See three dimensions, the vision is blending, not to mention
Never prepared for funerals he pretends he’s attending

Scatter thought; chatterbox, planning mad hatter plots
Like neighborhood ballers posting up on the block,
Flood the hot-spot and set up a rock shop,
Got gems and minerals with more in stock
The lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, can’t be stopped
Because three more always grow where the last head chopped

In his lair, tearing through the rarest of known tomes
Bloodied, preparing, bearing home-grown pheromones
While atoned-postponed rambo reloads ranged ammo
This ****** Stallone, left alone, changes the channel
He’s amorphous on his own
His thesaurus is his zone
Choruses to juxtapose
It’s just gorgeous when he glows
Like a broke back mat smacking crack to the dome
The knick-knack paddy-wack gives this dog a bone

One of zero ***** given.
Proposition; my vision
Requisition:
Mass transmission
Free the minds imprisoned.
Send them off christened,
Eyes bright, glistened
Blood thickened, muscles;
tightly stiffened
Sick with bliss, concisely conditioned
Well provisioned, and on a mission
Kids’ just wishin’
Fishin’ for dishin’s
Switchin’ positions like politicians

With destination anticipation
An explanations is all they’re craving
Get what’s deserved for misbehaving
Even adulated need saving
Jolly Rodger’s what’s left waving
Until the tomb needs engraving
El Dorado:
Yellow brick road, gold pavement

Just let your will blend from birth to urn
Cause I have to spend some worth to earn
Just like the
Sun comes round the bend come burst and burn
Me and the Earth, we’re both cursed to turn

Mind in a mutter, from the throat-cutter utter
Off cluttered, from sputtering up soft butter

Projectile vomitin’
Simple sad homonyms
Bent ones that haunted him
**** ones that taunted him

Crash, fell bumping a paladin’s ballad
Yelling from the cell, a hell that’s padded
Plain scabbard belt fastened
Brain splattered, well contrasted
Gotta face it, it’s just a facet
Haphazard basic *******

Dazed, he laid lazy in a field of daisies, crazy
still failing life in spite of praises, does not phase me

Never fully try, never fully fail, never succeed
He smokes **** ‘til his failure’s guaranteed

Somebody makes the calls; Atlas shrugged ‘neath it all
Pedestal built too tall; perhaps the world will fall

Out in the desert Kashmir looms like a mirage
Or am I breathing exhaust fumes in the garage

What good is my happiness, my reason, justice, or pity?
I don’t know why you’d ask me this, but I guess it’s all ******

Fight my battles rolling downhill,
Sit back while my verbs and nouns spill
Words not meant to astound, but still
Chill

I’m palm stroking broke minds
With ****** soaked rhymes

I can occur just like a canna crop trafficker
I infer with calipers; as amateurs get massacred
Like melon to Gallagher
A gallon of palaver
What else can you do but take the beat and ravage her

Precision thumbs commissioned this slurred-dumb, late ***
With blood, sweat and tears smeared on the surgeon's apron

Brazen, boring, shameless; facetious
What a ****** thesis to teach us, I mean, Jesus

Witness the riots;
Sit back in silence,
Eyeless; In a crisis
Righteous, feeling timeless

I’m a weak witted weapon without suppressants
At my peak, spit blessings that best luminescence
Testing, expressing questions;
a primordial presence
Learning lessons of the essence,
Leaning in ******* obsessions
Now back to the digressions,

Enchant the mic and pass her
a wish to go follow gets a focal fracture
By the aficionado postal slasher
My vocals compact like a dope oil extractor
Spoke, spat, and risen from the earth like the rapture
Lyrics locked in; like ‘final answer’
Do a vinyl transfer
Sample and enhance her

Burn sweetest flowers hourly
The meanest greenest sour D
Take a bouquet the day he take a dowry

Fine divine entwined nugs
Unwind with the kind bud
And when it comes to this composition;
Just try it; succumb
Peel open a dub, recline, combine lovely drugs and paper.
loses loose shrubs, keeps his grip: shrugs and taper
Lick with the spit on the tip of the tongue, and savor
Chip off the old lungs, word to pops, mums and neighbors
Long lasting, juicy like a fruity gum flavor
Meet your maker, brute ****! Astute *** behavior

Faulty wiring in our brains
Exalt me as I complain
Are we just Abel's and Kane's, soon to be slain?
Perhaps maybe just a tune to be played?
Who keeps the balance of pleasures between pains
Who breaks silence for treasures? Who’s blood stains?
Dang

As I think it through, inhale and breathe fumes
I fail to read moods, but still I’ll seek tunes
As the green room’s groove looms
And the smoke plumes perfume
He unleashes leeches,
the deed is; eat his wounds
Stanley David Dec 2013
I took a walk looking for a reason to come back home,
And searched for Beatrice along the way.

I too, a wayfarer looked for a response that cannot be homogenized
And sorrowed for breathlessly asking, “Then when?”

I told another woman, “Let Freud’s analysis reach that conclusion”, but how?
And subliminal feelings become another threatening worry.

I thought a word, lachrymose, finite, and resonant. That concisely besmirched her.  
And subsequently forgotten, but always tacit, “Why?”

I think about why looking for a reason to correspond becomes hopeless.
And Sisyphus falls backwards against the weight…
Dondaycee Nov 2018
Imagine if any thing could bother me,
My mind would probably bloom,
If it elicits what’s inside of me; an elephants in the room,
And I can go run but if I run,
What’s under the nose concisely loops,
If I am that, then I accept,
Because it is eye whom conceptions the mood,

I can be simple if need be,
Like life; everything needs me,
Everything is me,
If I’m connected to all,
How could I ever miss me?
Don’t be silly… Wabbit,
Everything I see, I admire,
You are beyond love; if an experience with you is desired…
If it’s the moment that brings a high; dark days made us tired, our ways made the fires, and mind waves made us lighter,

I.e. if I am what bothers me,
Acceptance is how I bloom,
I find myself, what becomes evident; I’m not my current mood,
Now there’s no longer a problem in the room,
If I expressed an idiom; balance says loop,
The law of attraction and Polar Motion defines a Polarity Dispute,
This is why I advocate taking a different angle; paradox because there isn’t a difference between obtuse and acute,
If measuring for a comparison, intelligence defines a fool,
There’s no separation if it’s geometric shape expresses glue,
For what you see is truly one… until a question arises; “What Is two?”
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
**** do not cover yourself
your arms across
your ******* are so
nice and do not
cover them across your
body is the curving
hush of perfectly
winsome beauty(not skinny
or exactly straight

but precisely wonderful;

concisely amorous to touch).
Brad Lambert Jul 2014
"I went back home when things got ugly."
O' things be a'gettin' uglier-ugly these days.
These days spent slipping into subtle sub-absurdities.
These days spent alone with the maimed voices of vocal minds.

I caught a ratta-boar-ship sailin' across the mellow seas.
Its engine burned on days past and the trimmings of willow trees.
Oil pools and plumes. How all colors do break!
Tongue-in-cheek statements cross my illogical state.

I’m all a’breakin’ down on these dead-leaf mounds.
The rabbit breaks swiftly at the neck without sound.
I pledge fanfare to the reeds in the marshes between woods.
Aye, this confidence had been borne of harshness, all raked.

You line'd and fume'd– body and mind and breath.
Yea, my love burns long before fleeting into death.
Spin some honey in mud, them lies are laced with truths.
Honey hunted down from them hives all exhumed.

I exclaim, for I know.
Facts gathered from sea-salt snows
were read concisely and plain.
One must share what one knows:

This craft berates waves.
So intent on indexing all of those days.
Such absurdity. How vexing.
Confusion! Confusion! So bent and off-putting.
‘Twas Confusion who first sank in simple, mud-less footing.
Her clumsiness could not be stayed, nor postponed or ever-praised.
No, not by slipshod attempts at brewing a lightly-dark grey.
Spare drops a'dribblin' 'round the base of the water tower.
Shadows of clouds with night approaching by the hour.
Knocks a’rappin’ on a door hung without hinges.
Stomachs full of hunger. Hearts fearing blood.
Lungs on smoke-binges. Forest fires during floods.
My body's burnt-out on them rank soul-singes.
Confusion bating breath through chapped-lip fringes
whilst catching fish without string.
As the sun at dawn and the moon at dusk,
steam rises when eyes have been cast far from us.


Waters be a'ripplin' beneath your trudge-boots.
In the marshes makin' movements in the moonlight.
Only patience will bring the sunlight.
"I’m raking harshness in the morning."
Addison René Sep 2014
my words are going to hit you.
so hard,
you forget your first name.
the paintings etched on your skin
will now be our story
and i want your
cigarette-stained fingertips
to burn holes into
my skin -
set me on fire.
my words are going to stay with you
while you're not
holding your breath
on bridges,
tunnels,
elevators,
traintracks...
and while my face would be turning blue,
with lack of oxygen.
my words are
so precisely
and concisely
constructed into sentences,
that are never spoken,
never whispered,
uttered,
or murmured;
but they are written down
for you to read.
so please -
touch my face
tell me you love me
then *set me on fire.
literally an example of stream of consciousness
kate May 10
Mẹ,

I am hurt by the way things have ended. How do you struggle with your second language, but know exactly what words jab at my dignity? The lack of “I love you”s as I grow up is justified, yet at the times you desire, you’re suddenly fluent in the language of breaking my heart. You articulate clearly and concisely, every syllable stabbing into my spirit as I swallow the lump in my throat. I still bite my tongue with remorse for growing into what you want to be. I choke down any remarks that would make you think less of me (less of you).

You compare me to the man who broke us, but I refuse to see him in the mirror. I have your left dimple, and my brother’s skin that contrasts yours so vividly like the branches that hold your dear orchids next to the porcelain in the glass closet that’s as fragile as your ego. My eyes come from what I have overcome, and the fire in my heart is God. I wish you saw His glory within me, and not the beast that you married.

I wish you weren’t so embarrassed of yourself. I wish you felt familiarity in a country as foreign as mine. For despite all you have done, I want to show you off. I am sorry for how you raised me. Most of all, I forgive you for all the apologies I never received. May you perceive yourself with grace.

Love,
your daughter
Wuji Sep 2012
We are the ones who won't open our eyes,
Fearing that we will turn into cold stone.
The unknown, a dangerous mystery,
That is why we can never truly know.
Out of sight out of mind, can that be true?
No, we will always concisely be sad.
Deep down we all can feel it's just a ruse,
In the distorted nest of all our fears.
If that's not enough, the snake kissed your face,
All the saliva of temptation there.
Wipe it off quickly before you lick your ich,
Too late now the snakes know how much you care.
Medusa can't wait to have a new fool,
Trophy of a scared man, isn't that cool?
You have to open your eyes sooner or later. (Sonnet)
She could not concisely have expressed how it happened
How the vibrant colours of the days
She found herself living within the walls of
Had  become strangely gaunt and watered down

But they had

And this man, a man she barely knew
Could not possibly know how the words he had just spoken from the pulpit
"Here we are, half way through the dark days of Winter."
Would reach inside her and stir up the winds of urgency

But they had

Amid strangers, she pulled a thorn from her self-inflicted  crown
And silently began mending a life she barely recognized
With vision both struggling and skewed, she fumbled along with thorny needle and thread
Upon that which for too long, had been coming apart at the seams
Eric L Warner Feb 2018
Love is a verb.
An action so intense that it scalds the tongue and makes those 3 words difficult to say.
And with each broken heart, scar tissue builds up along the pallet and makes it even more difficult to say.
And the taste buds start to singe and the words taste bitter.
And then a new love comes along.
And her kisses are the aloe that opens up the vowels and consonants of the heart, and allow me to speak softly and concisely, until I am able to sing.
J Jan 2017
taught to articulate concisely
to breathe fresh air, easily
but plagued with pollution
from corporate illusion
i refuse to stay still
in the sprout of a revolution
so I am letting go
of what smog still resides
what does not fuel my insides
this is goodbye,
to everything I have that I do not need,
and a hello
to me
ArominizedM Jun 2015
For you have been in my mind lately
I fell for the idea that crept in succinctly.
For you have dwelled among the posts in my tier
of thoughts that lingered a like an oasis of fair.

That I woke in the midst of a sea running dry
from a stream of paltry sum of fears I cried,
Alas, my cohorts have left me astray
left me to dwell in a running course bay.

He who dwell among the tents of the Most High
will come to know the pleasantries and the keeps that pass by.
I never did plan to include you in my decision
but the thought of you saved myself from a state of corrosion.

Henceforth the simile of my metaphorical degree,
I vaguely know how to respond to such a creature as thee.
Knowing the thread of my lips converse me to tread lightly
but the sight of you and the distance maimed me to aim concisely.
Sam Irons Jun 2014
#3
Its just me and you and everything in front of us, or behind
     especially if gravity operates like chemicals.
Let's go exploring, if you'd like,
     or sit like lumps and metastasize on chocolates.
The stage, the fame, the beer, the strife,
All the things we wanted don't matter in that
     wonderful white space ahead. This hill can trail
     off to the worlds we'll create, so utterly shapeless
     – impossibly white –
     yet filled with color and sound and romp.

The airplane we rode, just the first or last few frames of the film
     (you should start wherever you want)
     it had the new world in its sights to open up the stodgy filth
     and land us tumbling into the great unknown.
We walk ill-prepared, like our fathers,
only so far as what they know.
     A harsh word.

These legs will take me to Tøyengata or Nieve or Las Ramblas
and that street to the river
to the train or the bus
to a frozen tube of horrifying humanity
to land on familiar runways in New York or Albuquerque
     catch you in your mother's Civic
     and bound away.

Where we'll speak – concisely.

That's where intimacy lies: in codes and twitches,
     and very little soft sweet words;
     and, the more we love the less we say,
     'cept to remind each other we're ready to go cartograph again.
Then speak endlessly, drunk in each other's words, and move brazenly, tromp the neigh-sayers and know-it-alls,
stumble our way across frail little ropes,
sprint through orchards to catch smoke.
     Through the door, into bed.
     past the last frame.
     past that sweet little line –
     to let this placid chaos slide down the hill
     and trail off
          into madness.

I'll be waiting by the sleds.
You know what to do.
Elena Smith Nov 2015
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The air, cool and brisk
The first step is always a risk
But on my journey kept
A lonely go at this

The pier, long and dark
The first light does not arc
Engulfed in The Night
Just a rough start

The shops, full and lively
The last cent was spent wisely
All you buy you rent
Life ends concisely

The water, push and pulls
The last fog hinders an eyeful
Will the end cinder
Or does it icicle
-Luca Ivaldi

Death has been on my mind lately. But I understand exploring the dark corners of your mind help you shine to those in dark times.

— The End —