Why can't you write when you've churned out something that is akin to the language of Shakespeare and easily understandable at the same time? If you say your writer's block is like a dried spring, my type of writer's block will be the Sahara Desert! My point is that you did well in this poem. And I shall grant myself the pleasure to review your poem and give it sweet release from the Green Room.
The only way, I can find myself in comprendo
is to peruse the works o' my mind, backwards.
For the oceanic abyss, is thy heart's de facto
And my soul, eternally wayward.
From my understanding, you constantly find yourself in an oceanic abyss, drowning and sinking. Your soul sways with the waves, not knowing where it will find itself next. The only way, perhaps a desperate attempt, that you can find yourself afloat is through perusing the works you've made from the latest to the oldest. Going on a trip down memory lane, quite backwards.
How I long to capture sublime sonnets,
cascading down waterfalls, enclosed in beguiling melodies.
But neither the water mark, nor the siren's bonnet,
E'er faces the absurd pessimism, o' my tearful remedies.
What a beautiful way to describe writer's block. I'm serious. Ideas crafted into realities are some of the most satisfying things for us writers. It is like finding a golden needle in a haystack. While we do that, we tend to create remedies that cope up with the feeling that keep us writers "high". Thinking of a brilliant idea and finishing it.
Ridiculous. She hath failed us all,
for simplicity averted her eyes, and the gift o' genies
withdrew thy tainted wishes, and t'was a fiery brawl.
And it was only natural; the sirens were merely "meanies"-
This poem relies heavily on the themes of the ocean and the way you use it is wonderful! I could only assume that the words in italics are the whispers and taunts of the sirens and you are rightly trying to ignore it. The addition of sirens adds an interesting aspects to your richly written poem.
How mature. Cannot e'en write convincing prose,
Which contain'd no hidden lockets,
that guarded the cascades, o' thy pitiful woes.
Too vague, too wrought with shame, which I could ne'er
submerge, e'en in my finest sea-rockets.
I'm not sure but I felt this entire stanza needs to be italicized. I don't get why the last two lines were not italicized as they seemed incredibly mean. Still, the sirens are so mean, but this can also mean our own selves criticizing us for not doing a good job, comparing oneself to others bringing oneself deeper to the depths.
Stupidity is rife. And neither I, nor thy,
are any worthy exception.
I gaze into the oceanic abyss, wondering why we really write
For thee and I an infinity futile, o' any tangible conception
And the sirens were always right...
HAHAHHA YES. Stupidity is something every human being experiences I believe. We've all done stupid choices (I'm saying this in the context where someone would look at what you've done and say yeah that's stupid) But the author seems to agree with the sirens as she drowns further into the deepest depths of their sorrow, paralyzed and unable to write.
Overall, your poem is wonderful! This possesses such descriptive, rich, and decadent prose. Admittedly some of your poems can be hard to digest at first, but I find it enjoyable when I'm able to dissect and unearth what your poem means. Keep it up!
This is alpacaboss, signing off.
Points: 10130
Reviews: 105
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