nycterent

sleeping in a campfire

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Bluefin Tuna by nycterent, literature

Literature

Bluefin Tuna

Bitter friend, pour me the sound of mountains climbing under the waves like spreading gills. These fingers lift To the ones left behind To the ones silent To the ones hunted and cradled up and out of the grass green waters in gentle nets: I say, you do not surprise me knocking the waves and wood with sullen flank. You are not unfamiliar, in your blue slip, in this dust of droplets, salting first the dry dock, then the ice.

When the kettle explodes by nycterent, literature

Crit Ticks for the Critics by nycterent, literature

Literature

Crit Ticks for the Critics

"He has the right to criticize who has the heart to help." - Abraham Lincoln Introduction: You've read guides, you've heard the propaganda, and now there's no going back. You've decided: "I want to write critiques too!" Looking out over the gray expanse of dA, you spot a poem. Or a photograph. Or a juicy piece of digital art, and you know exactly what you want to say. Or maybe you don't, but you slog through, making the effort. And voila! A click and you navigate away, grinning, imagining the artist's delight when the deviant opens his or her message center upon the next log-in. You left a critique, whether as a "critique" or in a comment

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No Excuses by Halatia, literature

Literature

No Excuses

It’s just after midnight January 1, 2010. And I write: I literally think I spend my whole life making excuses. I make excuses. I say, ‘tomorrow’ as though they will never run out, like there never actually will be a today. I don’t know what I want to be, but it certainly isn’t this, this person who smiles and thinks that things will just see themselves through without any real work. But that has never happened. Nothing will ever happen without action, without willpower, without determination, and most importantly, without self-reliability and taking responsibility for every thing you do. So give yoursel

fix myself by theUniverseCries, literature

Literature

fix myself

I've shrunk fear into just a word I've picked through the dirt. I've smiled at these god damn earthworms far too long. With courage destroyed. Oh, I must learn to piece together fragments of glass which reflects who I am. Who you've made me. And I'll tell you to smile, so I can feast. I've already consumed you. I've already died this way; already felt my corpse go cold. Already tasted black flowers push through such soiled lungs. I'm not afraid. anymore. So I'll turn the lights off, leave me nude, grow warm, fend off your words and just... remember. How sticky they were, and how I'd be the first to crawl into them.

The Pizza, The Prophet, and Me by cunningcoyote, literature

Literature

The Pizza, The Prophet, and Me

So. It all began when the prophet Mohammad, peace and blessings be upon him, came for a visit to my house for some pizza and video games. I’d had the cheese and garlic pizza, with the pan-style crust with mozzarella crammed inside, and he had the regular old original crust topped with lots of vegetables, a lot of them olives, onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. He really likes those peppers a lot, so I always make sure I have some in the house in case he decides to come over. So anyway, there we were: me, lounging on the couch with my feet propped up on the little wooden folding table and he, sitting in his green robe thingy, cross

Blood of Gold by harunokaze, literature

Literature

Blood of Gold

"You'll never be beautiful, Leralia. There's too much of your blood-mother in you." It was Kasea, her father's first-wife who'd said that, when Leralia was still young and untrained enough to indulge in occasional fits of vanity. Faced, for the first time, with man who was to be her husband, Leralia thought again of those words. Too much of her blood-mother to ever be beautiful: hair too curly, face too square, breasts too small. But there was value to blood beyond beauty, value enough that she now sat in a room with a wealthy man who would take her as his first-wife. As her mother had been, until her death had given that position to Kasea.

Nectarines by smurfofdoom, literature

Literature

Nectarines

I said I preferred peaches, but you wanted a nectarine. So we brought it back and you portioned it out and I found it wasn't better — only different. You went back to your city, and I held the taste in my mouth for days. Curl the knife around the pit; gently twist the halves apart. Admire the honey-golden forms and the rich-veined flesh. So what did I buy at the grocer's on St. Benedict's Street? Not peaches, but smooth nectarines. It is different in this country, where pleasures have become necessities. These days I cannot taste except in memory.

Ducks at a Barbecue by Struco, literature

Literature

Ducks at a Barbecue

The ducks hang around like we own the place; Campfire proprietors. They busy themselves with menial duck-tasks, Searching with their bills for work-permits. We toss them white bread application-forms And they descend on them eagerly. Then they’re on their way, Grumbling about “Work. Work.” I watch them mooching about, Scuffing their orange heels, And I sympathise… There can’t be many jobs for ducks around here.*

Born Afar by cheramyn, literature

Literature

Born Afar

We would be dark. Matter of fact. I'd turn into Penelope. Pen-e-lope, like cantelope; she was ripe, over ripe perhaps, withered with the waiting years, Penny parched from rolling tears- enough to swim him home. If he was water you are stone. Sandstone. Solid. Something - young boys need to cling to, something - a bow to fit the string to, something. That's not me but it's something. You would be warm, weighted and one. Entirely a second son, a second son and quite undone, Stay. Smile upon my wasted weaving fingertips, shun your father's treasure ship and hold me close, alone.

at sundown by CircadianTwilight, literature

to my former self - by Aadea, literature

Literature

to my former self -

i. in a dim and exhausted new york subway train - i surrender my fingerprints over to dirty railings and start over. ii. my body stretches like a mayan temple over his landscape. my sun drags itself across his skies to his brutal moon prowling the outskirts of our madness. he says bend yourself to these sights, love. recognize, but never accept. i want your filthy and bruised hope on my table. he was saturating space, says - how much do you love your world. eyes screaming alive over and over again. you can do better he says, but you want to do worse. iii. a giraffe crawls out of my dead skin and is silent, but stares with fa

seadeer i'm getting there by Aadea, literature

Literature

seadeer i'm getting there

Lay here with me on my bed of customary blue: It's here I trace with tongues and dainty rubbings the union of shapes - watch as the circles triumph and taj-mahal our hearts. They, the heartless bastards with mirrors and forky spoons. You, such a leader, I lack. Such a follower I dismiss. I am cold and I am wet with your fever. I am gnashing my gums and half-crying half-roaring against steel for the attention of a desert, for the attention. I went to the ocean, dared him to swallow my ankles. I dared him. Told him I lost my irises to seaweed and it tastes like honey without the sweetness, just the sting to be wrapped - in somethi

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The Trouble with a Love Poem by Robsonnet, literature

Literature

The Trouble with a Love Poem

Ever since that first cave man told the woman of his fancy, "Looking at you makes me want to say something where all the words end with the same sound," and then clubbed her and dragged her off to his cave to show her his etchings, most people's first poetic efforts have been expressions of fondness and desire. And no matter how bad the poem is, when the feeling is mutual, the response is going to be very reinforcing. "You wrote me a POEM?! Oh, it's BEAUTIFUL! That's so SWEET!" Et cetera, et cetera, with kisses. At this point, the love poem is perfect. It communicated the desired message, and it had the desired effect. But then, with the be

Tips For Editing Poetry by suture, literature

Literature

Tips For Editing Poetry

***Tips For the Novice (and otherwise) - Editing*** The blanket statement, "Editing/revision harms poetry," is simply wrong. It's akin to a photographer claiming that focusing the lens ruins the emotion of the photograph. It is the details, and the appropriate attention paid to them, that separate a photograph from a snapshot. Imagine a film maker slapping every frame he shot up on the screen without editing for continuity, for pacing, for effect. What a disaster. That is not to say that editing can't be destructive - there is such a thing as poor editing, just as there is poor writing. But done correctly, done well, it is one of the m

About nycterent

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Artist // Professional // Literature

Jan 24
Antarctica
Deviant for 16 years
thecanaryreview.com/

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_{"I gave up on new poetry myself thirty years ago, when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens on a hostile world."Russell Baker}

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nycterent

Jun 27, 2014

Ten years, and a couple cute dogs

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Earlier this week, I realized it's been over a decade that I've been a member of deviantART. Wow. Ten years this may, from poetry to photography to prose to more photography to digital art. It's pretty intense, but the biggest thing that hit me when I logged into this account after this long hiatus was the reminder of all the wonderful people I've met along the way. If you'd like to keep in touch, and I hope you do, you should watch me over at ninebark (https://www.deviantart.com/ninebark). We will chat and note and comment and have an amazing time. And if that's not enough, let me bribe you with some pretty pictures: Come say hello and tell me what you've been up to,

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nycterent

Mar 15, 2013

Brimming

0 min read

:thumb270725044: This is kinda how I'm feeling now, but beats me if I know why. Life is good. Cat is healthy (finally). Work is only kinda nibbling at my soul. Research is meandering. Writing is happening. Food is delicious. Spring is coming. Naiya approves.