RWEHAVING FUN, click here
to update your web pages on AuthorsDen.
Those who play falsely are in the wind.
The Truman Show
awakened to the fabrication
of his anonymity
amid no real fanfare
beyond the constant buzz
of droning insects,
who appeared to be
labouring under the distinct
and distinctively mistaken
impression that he was
one of them.
As the wind picked up,
they moved as one,
than the sum
of their incipient
bored of banality,
they toyed with
a new idea
and wrote themselves
no less selfish
for their ostensive
altruism than an
in a postmodern age
where the posted speed
limits only the myopic
who fail to see the big picture
no matter how closely they
look at a macrocosmic
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Kate Burnside
|Goodness! The Big Guns are out on this one and I thought, hello, yes, we are having fun, aren't we?! AD is certainly the place to have it and those who take themselves toooooooo seriously soon find there's no more than the buzz of just a few flies hitting the fan amongst the tumbleweed that has invaded their dens. Guess your Truman is the equivalent of our Paxman in this instance and probably anyone who allows themselves to be interviewed by them gets all they deserve - and none of the sum twain is worth a millisecond of a sensible person's time. Poetry, on the other hand, is a magical art. It is a game of smoke and mirrors and most poets would assume that such writing is a posturing of sorts; the place where nothing is assumed to be truly autobiographical whilst yet accepting the necessary involvement of the individual heart and mind that has conceived it. Thank you, RWE, for reminding me not to take myself too seriously, which I have been in danger of doing lately as worldly preoccupations have ramped up to consume my time and attention. It is indeed refreshing, after a few months hiatus, to find the comments on my latest post to be so much more en pointe and perceptive than those my work has gained from 'actual' readers I'm otherwise involved with in 'real time'. It's good to be back and thank you, as always, for your warm welcome. Your insight is always searing and incisive. xx|
|Reviewed by richard cederberg
|Hello! I know your words. The construction. The spirit. I know your real name. But I won't say. Not today or any other. I know the yearning, the burning, the churning, the turning over of possibilities, and how anointed letters are fitted together to create phraseology of a healthier, more out-spoken persona speaking truth truthfully from the heart.
Your Nom de Plumage is clever. A call for something new.
I never wanted to be one of them either. Still don't. Never will. Makes me ill. The poet who writes about everything has nothing to say. That's what I say. But who cares. Only ever wanted to be accurate and obedient to my blessed source. Bowel movements are for waste not words. And I know, too, that "those who play falsely are in the wind" and so are the methane expulsions of poetic cattle. Snippets like these snicker sardonically. And a new idea for poetry beckons like a perfectly stacked cheeseburger with bacon and thousand island.
Truth be told I've become so bored with poetic yammering that my yawns never stop echoing. I keep thinking the vibrations might summon UFO's or the black-eyed children of the Nephilim. And oh yes... the manifestly demonstrative concern for the welfare of others seems the right thing to do, but...... who can lay claim to real selflessness except ONE. Do I cogitate amiss? Been known for it. I've tried honestly but have failed. Much of what I've accomplished has now become the fertilizer for what's coming next. ALAS.
Othello: "Oh monstrous, monstrous"
lago: "Nay... this was but his dream."
Othello: "But this denoted a foregone conclusion."
lago: "Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream,
And this may help to thicken other proofs,
That do demonstrate thinly."
Haha... RWEHaving FUN YET?
|Reviewed by Odin Roark
|Certainly an unforgiving way to look at it...which arguably is what your target deserves.|
|Reviewed by RWEHAVING FUN
|Ah, Mr. True. You truly are the ideal mis-reader for this poem.
and, Mr. Roark, so nice of you to opine: those who mis-read may be forgiven their imperfections, but those who mis-read and then augment their errors by commenting may receive the ill-gotten fruits of false perceptions... but no-one merits unforgiveness more than those who erroneously project that fault upon others... and still there is grace.
And still there is grace, he said, and look who appears to face the face?
…et tu, mon frere? Sad-eyed ladies’ man of the highlands?
Shakespearean allusions? What might this portend?
The next step after this bright repartee between Iago and Othello is of course to have Othello’s famed utterance descend with drum roll upon the audience’s ears: I’ll tear [Desdemona] to pieces!
But what might this provocative impresario mean by invoking Shakespearean tragedy thus and thus far have we come in a glass darkly.
Could one but be seen as one is by one’s words made out to be? If a voice were the arbiter of a destiny? Could one be indirectly directive without having a clear sense of direction? Or maybe with a clearly honed knowledge of the homeward way we weary travellers wend?
What of this cheeseburger in paradise, this poetic palimpsest in a teapot? Whose aboard? And can you stifle a yawn long enough to inveigle or invoke more than a memory of histrionic heroes and the mirrors they carry for self-analysis? Sure, man may not be an island, but if you rub that Thousand Island bottle long enough, you never know what kind of genius might emerge.
|Reviewed by Michael True
|portrayal portrayed? the big picture otherwise perfect. Although I suspect averse to be a verse to see or a verse to read. Quite the playful patter diving deep beneath this sleepy surface. M.True|