Abernaith• Show poetry

My soul is a dark forest that will not keep
It grows in the land of shadows deep
Where fly blackbirds who cry havoc and weep
My soul is a dark forest that will not keep
It thrives in the mists of restless sleep
Where rise the cliffs of dreams too steep
My soul is a dark forest that will not keep
It grows in the land of shadows deep





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My Self:

I am busy with school nowadays, particularly with trying to learn how to earn a living with writing. But otherwise, I am free to pursue whatever interest I fancy, which is mostly reading, eating and sleeping - in no particular order. When I feel philosophical, I go out and people-watch. It's a perfectly awful exercise in wasting time, but that's philosophy for you. (Just kidding.) I have great respect for philosophers. I don't understand most of them, but I respect them nonetheless.



Where to find me:

I'm around the internet if you happen to poke your nose in the right (or wrong, depending on your perspective) places. I use this same alias for other accounts, such as in Livejournal, Fanfiction.net, PBwiki, etc. I do not encourage you to visit these places, however, since I haven't update them in over half a year. I'm fickle like that.





Writers I love, love very much: Mary Renault, Jack Seward, J.R.R. Tolkien, Alexander Dumas (whose work, Le Comte de Monte Cristo, will forever ever be remembered with much belly aches), Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Barry Hughart, James Baldwin (Oh Giovanni...!), Jack London, Rudyard Kipling, Jose P. Rizal (a spoiled choice really, but he's the kind of chap I'd have liked as a penpal), Philip Pullman, Paolo Coelho, George R.R. Martin, Pablo Neruda, Edgar Allan Poe, T.S. Eliot, Orson Scott Card, Poul Anderson, William Goldman, Hunter Thompson, George Orwell, Salman Rushdie, and I should still hope I'll learn to love many, many, many more...





SPECIAL POEM PLUG:

"Ophelia" by Arthur Rimbaud

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

(read it all: http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Ophelia.html)


I am discovering Arthur Rimbaud. The rebellious spirit of his youth suffused with creative albeit violent spontaniety allured me. I found out about him in my Philosophy class, and the first I ever heard about him goes: "La vraie vie est ailleurs."

The true life is elsewhere. An interesting, multi-faceted truth.




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And, because I think this poem describes me, generally:



"Ah, how short a time it is
that we are here! Why then not
set our hearts at rest,
Ceasing to trouble whether
we remain or go?



I want not wealth;
I want not power:
heaven is beyond my hopes.
Then let me stroll
through the bright hours
as they pass, in my garden
among flowers,
or I will mount the hill
and sing my song,
or weave my verse
beside the limpid brook.



Thus I will work out
my allotted span, content
with the appointments of Fate,
my spirit free from care."



T'ao Ch'ien
A.D. 365-427
The Peach Blossom Fountain


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Eduardo says "hi" and he says hopes you have all been good little children on Santa's list. And that he spits on your cotton candy idle-ism crap.



Just a few of the old trophy-winners:
allpoetry.com/list/25560



P.S. And if you know your Shakespeare, you know why I am 138.