- Art of Confrontation
- Emily Bronte’s “Wild Workshop,” Wuthering Heights
- Is Mr. Darcy a Feminist?
- It Was Books That Made Me Feel Perhaps I Was Not Completely Alone
- The Last Ship
- Letting Lips Speak
- Make up the breakup
- Our Literary Manifesto
- A Passionate Defense of Genre Fiction
- Poems for Slughorn
- Robert Walton’s Sieve of Nectar
- The Search For Truth
- A Societal DEvolution
- A Slughorne Contribution
- To Absorb or to Ignore
- Unpredictable Demonstrations of Literature
- Comparative Analysis of “Who Goes There?” and It’s Adaptations to Film
- What One Makes of It
by Nicholas van der Waard
To be an owl, soaring through the night,
Or a breeze that blows through the raven
Hair of a woman, a lady in a silk chemise
Who reclines on a soft feather bed and dreams
“The night is young but Saturn old smiles sagely.
Moon dreams, sickle slashing sleep sings, to me sweetly songs of sagely
Wisdom and love. What has been and what will be
Come mingle like dancers in the mind
Of a hopeless dreamer dreaming drifting
Lightly on a tide.”
Pleasant, content, artistic bluebell blossom feelings
Rivers run ruthless across the page. A field of
Roses—verily a sage! Killer of mine rage
Ink spills across the frame. The tiger in me
Timid, ere growling made sudden tame.
“The arrows of unbuffering consequence
Bounce forlorn from my skin,
Rain over my feet. Harmless blades
Of feathered grass. It now a fence
Around me to protect
Mine tender heart.
Earthen eyes eager scan the horizon
Surmise love’s next surprise.
Hurt’s hell, the fading knell,
Distant peal of oft-promised joy
Rings the siren another bell.
And I think, and I dwell.
Sleep and dreams.
Touch tomorrow toy-like streams
Happiness moon beams, sorrow seems
How like a fallen soldier I felt, defeated, my goodwill utterly
Depleted. My unrequited love seated deep inside me, so blindly!
When through happy chance I beheld two ladies fair who fixed
Unto me a coupled stare. In them I saw what with her in love I had
Fallen. No baggage nor pain. Just two happy faces. Sparkling
eyes smiling stars twinkling cheerfully in the lonely dark. To me
Only they were glad to see. Their dawn is your dusk, my rebel;
And the sickle of a thin, shy moon in my heart rises cautiously to
Await the arrival of another brilliant sunrise.
Sad sighs, I shut mine eyes. She told me they were green.
All I want is to hear her voice, if not here, perchance a dream?
Nightmares plague me, I rise uneasy. Was that her I’d seen?
Away from me she went, no matter how I tried.
To catch and hold her one last time, the purpose of this rhyme.
Here are words she may not read. Yet, to hope I cling:
I knew the risks and so did she. We took our chances.
Perhaps we’ll meet again, my love. I just pray under happier
Anger, rage, lament reason
Lost, sophomore, dim-witted sage
The voice of reason, drowned out
by the din of a fit of the season.
Alas! Fury, encompass me it doth
Such as it is, loth! Despair
Hated’s broth, the taste bitter
None doth compare.
Sad beautiful bell, beligerent beam
Smiles sad seem such lonely dreams how
Tired against the beam. One spent can
But the music plays on.
Nightmares are the hellish, black, vile hounds that nip at my heels, chasing me into the day where I dream awake, exhausted and spent and left wanting.
Life’s lofty love so fleeting flies,
Seeping passion, it deeply buried lies
The raven of my graveyard heart,
Spreads her glorious wings, sadly she sings
Soars, takes flight, joyful and free, into the glorious
And long beautiful Night.