Excerpts from the Lost Journal of a Multi-Lingual Sojourner

The following excerpts have recently been found.  They notate several villages throughout Europe and the unearthly infestation of demonic creatures that had threatened their very existence at some point in history.

These excerpts are all taken from the lost journal of a multi-lingual nomadic traveller, a sojourner, who was known to pass through Europe, never staying too long in any one village or town.  Yet despite his limited acquaintances with the villagers, legend tells of this journeyman.  He is spoken of in many of the lost myths and was said to wield extraordinary levels of respect in every place he settled in.

Throughout these journeys, this sojourner, chronicles were said to have been taken, documenting the widespread terror these demonic creatures had brought upon each village.  The chronicles were also cited as holding the key to how these beasts were vanquished back to hell.  

The dates are blurred and the pages have broken loose from their binding.  Therefore, there is no possible way to determine how each of these entries would fit chronologically:

Page 1:  Visitation to Small Swedish Village

Dessa utlänningar var ingenting annat än utomstående själva. De var utstötta av en anledning, aldrig jagar på desperation i luften. Ändå är direkt ses som frälsare, lovar att vara redskap för förändring. De hänvisar till de gamla texterna, syftade till att tiden för profetian är nära. Men varje bevisade att de var något annat än välklädda charlataner.

Rough Translation:

These foreigners were nothing more than outsiders themselves.  They were outcasts for a reason, ever preying upon the desperation in the air. Yet they’re instantly viewed as saviors, promising to be instruments of change. They refer to the ancient texts, alluding that the time of the prophecy is near.  But each proved that they were nothing more than well-dressed charlatans.

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Page 2: Visitation to Small German Village

Sie polarisieren die Menschen mit Ihren Rhythmus und Anmeldeinformationen. Ich wünschte, ich könnte glauben. Ich weiß wirklich, aber ich habe gesehen, zu viele Magier Flanieren durch diese Straßen vor. Jeder bot ein Versprechen der Hoffnung. Jeder hatte seine Zauber vorbereitet. Sie alle eingegebenen in großen Prozession. Doch sobald sie realisiert, dass die Bedrohung real war, jeder zog sich so schnell wie sie erschienen. Ich bete Sie beweisen, sich selbst von denen, die vor gekommen bin und ewig wird eine Zeit der Anbetung sein.

Rough Translation: 

You polarize the people with your cadence and credentials. I wish I could believe.  I really do, but I’ve seen too many magicians stroll through these streets before.  Each one offered a promise of hope. Each had his spells prepared.  They all entered in grand procession.  Yet once they realized that the threat was real, each retreated as quickly as they appeared. I pray you prove yourself different from those who’ve come before and forever shall be a time of adoration.

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Page 3: Visitation to Small French Village

Les bêtes sont habituels. Nous avons appris à vivre notre vie en conséquence. Ils ne se lèvent avant le coucher du soleil. Par conséquent, les jours sont les nôtres. Puis un jour près le repas du soir, leur surface cris, l'émission d'avertissement juste de chacun et de tous. Ils n'ont jamais pénétré dans nos logements. Nous ne savons pas si ce n'est par un code ou quelque chose qu'ils ont tout simplement jamais essayé avant. C'est pourquoi nous blottir près, en s'assurant de garder les feux arrosés.

Rough Translation:

The beasts are habitual.  We have learned to live our lives accordingly.  They never rise before sunset. Therefore the days are our own.  Then sometime near the evening meal, their screams surface, issuing fair warning to each and all.  They have never entered our dwellings.  We are unsure if this is by code or something they’ve simply never tried before.  Hence we huddle close, making sure to keep the fires doused. 

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Page 4: Visitation to Small Portuguese Village

Então, o mágico, eu rezo para que você é o único predisse a profecia. No entanto, me perdoe se eu vacilar. Você não fez nada para ganhar minha confiança. Mas peço-vos que a varinha de onda forte e rápido, como estamos em suas mãos esta noite e além. Se você é capaz de prevalecer, então talvez se alegrar vai encontrar o seu caminho de casa.

Rough Translation:

So, magician, I pray you are the one foretold of in the prophecy. Yet forgive me if I waver.  You have not done anything to win my trust.  But I pray you wave that wand strong and quick, as we are in your hands tonight and beyond.  If you are able to prevail, then perhaps rejoice will find its way home.

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These chronicles are also cited in several antiquated collections of myths, as bearing the key as to how these beasts were vanquished back to hell.  These pages were said to be the most important documents ever crafted and would be shared amongst all towns and villages throughout all the land.  Should the demons return, with these pages, the villagers will be prepared and equipped to vanquish the beasts once more.

Unfortunately, this four entries were all that remained.  It is said, in the staid of those key pages, each village turned to their individual religions and found belief through prayer. 

This piece was inspired after reading all the wonderful responses to my article regarding Poetry and Foreign Languages, present to D'Verse for the 1/20/13 Poetics.

A Thanksgiving Tale

This is a short story that I originally posted earlier tonight on my Tumblr feed. It's kind of odd how this began.  That feed is basically a place I write jokes, many of them pretty bad.  Well, I wanted to write a Thanksgiving Joke, so I thought the Turkey in Bowling could be used when paired against the Holiday.  But this piece took over.  

Hope you all enjoy.  Have a Happy Thanksgiving

Michelle was a single mom. She was barely keeping things together as it was.  She did have a coupon for a free 20 lb bird, a sack of potatoes, an apple pie and some assorted vegetables.  Her local grocery store had the same promotion they run every year, where you cash in your shopping points for various prizes.  The Thanksgiving meal is one of the big ones, and she saved up for it as she did every year.  

On her way to the store, a few hours before it closed for the weekend, only three days before the holiday.  She saw these vets, wounded and malnourished standing outside an alms booth.  She didn’t have any money to give them, but she slowed down as they were talking.  It wasn’t just their stories that they were telling; instead they were universal, of people just like them, but moreover, just like anyone, anyone at all.  

Michelle started crying, knowing that this could easily have been her. She couldn’t help thinking that no matter how bad she thinks she has it, there are those worse, much worse off out there, how this clichéd saying is not a cliché at all.

She bowed her head as they offered her God’s blessing.  She redeemed her rewards and went out the opposite door.  She kept her head down, making sure to evade these men.   Eventually she made it over to her car, but the uncomfortable feeling would not dissipate let alone disappear.

On her way home, she couldn’t get these men out of her head.  All those stories, all those people in their stories remained.  

The next day she waited for her babysitter to stop over as she does every Monday.  It was her outlet night, where her and the girls would meet for a night of bowling.  She was reminding her sitter the emergency contact numbers, the sitter nodded without really listening, as they’re the same every time.   But this time, Michelle had a thought, one she could not shrug off.

She was driving down the street to the alley and pulled into the parking lot where her girls were already waiting for her.  She got out, hugged her friends and asked if someone could help her out.

Each girl took a container; Michelle had the largest of the bunch.  They crossed the street and entered a shelter.  She thought there had to be some reason that those men had told their stories the day before.  That she couldn’t get them out of her mind and how it couldn’t be a mere coincidence that their shelter was across from the lanes she bowls every week.

There she met up with someone working hard.  None of the ladies could believe how many people were on cots in the one section.  But when they passed through into the main area, their jaws hit the floor.  It seemed like hundreds of people were either sitting down with a small portion of bread and soup or in line for that precious meal.

She told the man how the story she heard the day before affected her, and presented him all the food she had and while not enough, perhaps it could help some out.  

The man was ecstatic by her generosity but assured her they barely have enough hands to go around here.  That there was no way they could afford to send any out looking for alms.  He asked, “are you sure they said they were from here,” to which Michelle nodded and uncontrollably she welled up pretty quickly, almost simultaneously with the man thanking god and looking to the ceiling as he did so.  

They walked out and as they did a young child came up to her leg, wrapped her arms around her left one and hugged her, whispering a muffled thank you.

The girls left and went across the street and bowled.

In the third game, the league had a contest every major holiday, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.  Any one to bowl three consecutive strikes in the fourth, fifth and sixth frames, wins a monstrous bird.  

What would happen was amazing.  The girls were not great bowlers, Michelle in particular.  But on that night, not one, not two, not three, but all four of them bowled turkeys that night.

The following evening, Michelle and her kids took the four birds with them and decided to spend the evening at the shelter, eating amongst the needful, but also to assist anyway they could.  And this particular Thanksgiving, her children learned a lesson elsewhere they never could

Hardwired in Groundwater

Curtailing the passionate reprieve
is often an impossible task

Hardwired in groundwater
are the under-surface collisions

of a hero's complexity and
the flight to fight reflexive design

Timpani
Snare
De-bassed ring around

Colored lenses
posturing atop
the bartering core

One half of the circumference
lauds you for your nurture

The other condemns you
for your nature

The savior complex
the volleys and the serves

Some victims embrace
your tender gaze

Some wither worthless
by the need for intervention

"the nerve," they say

Yet still

Curtailing the passionate reprieve
is often my abomination toward
submission

Diarized Poetry

Thought I'd do something a little different today.  I've created a new poetic form, or so I think I have.  If interested in finding out more, please read ahead.  

When all is said and done, will this be just another posting, or shall it become the birth of new form?  Will it be just another poetic form, or an outlet for coping, reflection and understanding?

Diarized Poetics, at its essence, is about connecting the personal to the abstract.  You are constructing sheets for understanding, pages of analysis.  You are the composer, to a never-ending composition, as so long as exhalation and inhalation conspire to inflate/deflate lungs and chest.

The form is intended to be truthful, yet it would be foolish to put a plate of fruit before a lover of fruit, stipulating he/she may feast, but from the sweet flesh of but one.  With this realization in mind, if the author of the composition chooses to fabricate life in the diarized inserts, than he or she would be no different than any life giving composer or creative.  It is in every writer to lie in the same notion that it is standardized fare for each writer to feel, and yes being numb is a form of feeling.  So all this said, let me introduce to you the Poetic form of Diarized Poetics.  I may not utilize form as often as others, yet I’m very schooled in the history of poetry and the richness, variety and nuance of said history.  Over the years I’ve amassed numerous books of reference and the ilk, illustrating and defining poetic shape and form.  While much of each repeats from edition to edition, each is shaped by it’s own interpretive candor, it’s own touch.  All this said, I’ve never found a form like I’ll be describing in a few moments.  I’m not ignorant; therefore it is entirely plausible that a similar form is already in existence.  While this may be the case or it may not be the case, the form itself is what’s up for discussion and exploration. 

My intent is to provide others an outlet by design.  An outlet where their experiences can align with abstract or shaded poetical argument, hopefully offering a much more fulfilling journey than mere journaling or poeticizing alone can do.

Together, in combination, diarized entry alongside poetic interpretation and voice will offer a medium for attraction as well as a sense of contrast, from which we can put it aside, only to revisit at a clearer or later point.  Upon the return my aim, the aspiration, is for this revisiting to unleash answers or roadmaps to those answers.  At the very least I believe this form will provide understanding.   I hope others enjoy the form:

Diarized Poetics

The rules are simple.  There is no one correct alignment or way to work within, outside the overriding premise itself:  Each poetic offering in the diarized style must include a diary, journal, log style of entry, immediately followed by an abstract or expanding short piece of reflective poetry upon that piece of journaling.  An example:

August 3^rd, 2011.         Awoke to the sound of thunder.  Removed the outer edge of my curtains, and then crinkled apart a few folds in the blinds.  Outside I could see a heavy rainfall and a completely darkened sky, which is not exactly strange for 3:00am, but for some reason the sensation within me was met with an exact replica of surprised, even betraying emotions. 

Darkness

Bends and folds

Cursing the naturalistic reservoir

Chastising the foundations of dawn

Unearthing sentiments reserved for swans

Only to bury the duckling, ugly as the pond it’s ever known

Broken shard of lighted ray

Unleashing wrath upon this early day

A seedling

A spawn to be

August 3^rd, 2011.         The rain came down for most of the morning.  The streets were still sopping from the deluge, yet the air is like a blanket of wool, smothering the breath prior to consumption.  The sky had ceased it’s tearing, perhaps for two hours now, yet the dampness was everywhere, the uncomfortable relation to soggy jeans and over-weighted cotton fabric, as they bear additional burden upon the spine, not enough to damage, yet enough to shape impression and momentum of mood.  The spinning of the water could be heard as treads made their way over it’s fluid form, stopping only as the shift is thrust into parked position.  The hand rests for a hesitating moment atop the leathered gear control, for reasons I do not know, nor am I aware of what happened those thirty seconds or so my eyes went void and focus became lost in a trancelike disembodiment, there, at the concrete abutment of the convenience store.  I exited the car, double checking I tapped the automatic locking sensor, fully aware of my sneakers as its rubber descending into and out from puddles, large enough, one might, in that moment, have been able to convince me they were like oceans for the mosquitos swarming to the lighting fixtures at the parking lots perimeter.  I entered the store, waited in line, only to find out the numbers I intended to play were sold out for the day.  I glanced at my watch and realized it was late.  So to extinguish that wasted trip feeling I get in such instances, I made a purchase, any purchase.  Pack of gum, spearmint, and a scratcher.  I did not win.

Conundrum of sound

Elicited by the absence

Yet remnants frame the hours

In it’s fractured apocalyptic scenery

Frozen into where

Bonded to the Why

How

The second entry here was purposely elongated to indicate, again, there is no right or wrong way to conduct a journal or diary entry submitted to your private notebook, therefore there is no right or wrong way to conduct it’s composition here within the poem.  In fact one, if it’s how they traditionally composed their entries could simply write:

8/3/11 Woke. Went to the bathroom.  Showered.  Took pills. Ate a cup of yogurt.  Had a glass of orange juice.  Went to the doctors. Came home

To which the poetical “call-back” would, again, be whatever happens to flow into your mind, whether it be a summary, a feeling, an offshoot, or whatever it may be that fits your poetical fancy.

Also, write the way that comes naturally to you.  It doesn’t have to be grammatically correct, unless of course you spell-check or white out/erase your entries to begin with.  The voice you use should be however it is you choose to use.  Here, I just wrote, much of it came out a bit more like poetic prose than how I sound now, composing this explanation, or how I typically sound when I go back through old journal entries.  But, with that said, it’s what came out and so I left it as is.

Again, your entries do not have to be factual.  They can be whatever you choose them to be.  However, I will say, you’ll gain much more from the form and the purpose of the exercise, by documenting truthful or real experience, thought, reflection & emotion than you will get by using fictional entries.

I’ve done several of these.  They’ve all been truthful to this point.  One day I’ll share them, perhaps.  But I’m not at that point yet.  I’ve gone back to the earliest ones and have found a bit more understanding.  I’m in a place, where I’m sure I’m not alone.  Perhaps that’s the reason I came up with this form in the first place.

I really don’t know, but I thought that it was only proper to share a tool that does truly hold potential, wherein I’m hopeful it will be able to be used by others, to assist with the sorting out and working through all the various intricacies that exist within their own “places, where specialized sets of circumstances are not the rarity but the norm.

Poets.  People.  This form is for anyone that needs it.  Feel free to share to anyone you feel might be in need of such an outlet, or miring in a “place” of their own.