Write With Adora

To Live Yet - Fiona Ambrosio

Tue, 28 May 2013 17:04:27 -0700

If ever I had need of sin,

my sin would be for me to begin

to live, to laugh - to love in earnest,

to feel the sun on my face, to accept the mere existence of my yearnings.

And if I should find that I am mistaken,

I would remind you of the road not taken.

Life is for living! For our necessary pursuits.

And I know, that whatever the journey, I will have found my missing truth.

Do you ever watch any TV shows? My friend got me into Avatar the Last Airbender and Sherlock, the BBC version, both of which are fantastic. I've also come to realize that the best writing isn't always in the written word.

Tue, 28 May 2013 17:04:04 -0700

Yup, I love Sherlock too! And a lot of other shows. The skillful writing evident in everything from plays to games is great support for your point. :)

Flickering by Shaelin Bishop

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 14:01:53 -0800

the forever hush of december air
a choir of doves weaves flowers through my hair
and the softness of silence still and alone
the hush of the soul right down to the bone

the words of a poet on the back of my eyes
droplets of ink slowly blot out the skies
and the whisper of stillness fresh and alive
when your body is weak but your essences survives

the faeries of summer can build my bones up
binding the sinews with honey from a golden cup
and the forest of demons traps lives in his hands
the lights flicker out and darken these lands

Saved By The Wolves

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 14:01:43 -0800

Saved By The Wolves

A Short Story by Isabella Alvarez

How long had she been here? Eternity. She remembered the excitement she’d felt that morning, the crisp air slapping at her cheeks, glistening auburn hair pulled back in a tight braid, puffs of air shooting out in front of her. She remembered the way her sneakers became damp with the morning dew, how the shadows of the forest hadn’t worried her. How she was amazed at her quick getaway.

She thought of the shimmering rays of light that peeked through the cracks in the tightly woven curtain of pine trees, with their earthy smell and feel. She remembered the thoughts that had raced through her mind: the wolves! I have to show everyone the wolves. She thought, disgusted at her self, of how she’d only looked up, towards the dawn sun, missing the crack in the ground right in front of her, half concealed by bronze autumn leaves.

Then the girl had fallen through, into a cave that she couldn’t seem to get out of. All she had were two blankets, a dying flashlight, and a box of granola bars. She didn’t know how far she’d fallen, or anything about the cave.

She waited.

For a sound, a light, anything. All she could hear was the heavy breathing coming from herself, an occasional rustle from her clothing being swished by the wind, and a constant drip from the water that came from an unseen crack above her head.

She knew she’d be driven out of her mind very soon. She couldn’t survive, and the granola bars weren’t going to last forever. Days passed, perhaps a week, and she grew weaker. She barely had the strength to unwrap the last of her granola bars and chew and swallow it.

About a week and a half had passed when she woke up from an uneasy ‘night’ of sleep. The girl opened her eyes to see two gleaming emerald circles staring at her. With a jolt of her heart she realized they were eyes.

Who, or maybe what, did they belong to?

Cautiously, she reached into backpack and pulled out the dim, flickering flashlight. The single shaft of light illuminated a rather furry figure.

“Oh,” she breathed, and slowly powered the flashlight off. “Oh.” She huddled against the corner in a fetal position, whimpering; the last bit of any strength within her diminished.

The wolf advanced. The girl froze.

Suddenly, the wolf threw back its long muzzle, and let out a savage cry. It was echoed by the cave, but then continued past its natural fade-away point; it was eternal.

At first the girl was confused. What was going on? What was this wolf trying to do? She looked up, and then it hit her: they, the wolves, were showing her a path out of the cave!

A neat path of glowing eyes revealed the perfect way to escape from the cave. “Thank you,” the girl whispered, staring into the wolf’s eyes as she feebly got up, shakily put her meager belongings in her backpack, and slowly but steadily began to follow the eyes and the echo.

The girl climbed, and become more confident as she did. She placed her feet carefully and quickly onto each rock or jutting-out boulder, and ignored the stinging pain that buzzed around her knees and elbows as she crawled on the gravely ground. She grew to love the echo with all her heart, and to find solace in every pair of eyes.

It took a while to make it to the top, and once she was there, she looked down on the now-silent wolves. She stared into each of their eyes and made a silent promise: she would never tell anyone about the wolves.

The girl pulled herself out of the slit with her last bit of strength and collapsed onto the crunchy leaves. As she world began to fade into inky darkness, she could hear, “We found her!” And maybe, just maybe, she might’ve heard a solemn parting howl.

theatlantic: Australia Is So Hot, They Had to Add a New Color...

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 19:35:56 -0800

theatlantic:

Australia Is So Hot, They Had to Add a New Color to the Weather Map

See that deep purple in the middle of this acne-red weather report from Down Under? That right there represents 129.2° F or 54 °C — it’s a brand-new shade that the Australian bureau of meteorology was forced to add to its heat index because their country is, you know, kind of on fire.

[…] To give you an idea of just how uncomfortable this Australian heatwave really is, consider that it’s just past midnight there right now … and it’s 95°F in Sydney.

Read more. [Image: Australia Bureau of Meteorology]

guardian: Tuesday’s Guardian eyewitness: A ragpicker seeks...

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 19:31:11 -0800

guardian:

Tuesday’s Guardian eyewitness: A ragpicker seeks warmth on a chilly day as northern India continues to face below-average temperatures

Photograph: Kevin Frayer/ AP

"You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch..."

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 18:09:42 -0800

“

You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, when you have none of the technique which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell.

This is the experience of all writers.

”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald on the Secret to Great Writing (via theatlantic)

Halloween is approaching... and so is our deadline.

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 22:45:58 -0700

somersaultmag:

We’re a great chance for new writers to get published, just saying. What we’re looking for is a bit of analysis, short or long, about something that deals with both art and politics - like political cartoons or the class politics of modern television. We’re up for lots of new ideas and new writers from all over (we’re not limited to US or Western culture….).

Here are our guidelines.

We tweet, tumble, and readily answer your questions!.

poetrysince1912: —W.S. Merwin, Poetry, April 2006 The Rumpus...

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 22:44:34 -0700

poetrysince1912:

—W.S. Merwin, Poetry, April 2006

The Rumpus takes a look at W.S. Merwin’s Selected Translations. Read his translator’s note to the above poem here.

things i'm bad at: ARTISTS OF SEATTLE

Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:10:39 -0700

things i'm bad at: ARTISTS OF SEATTLE:

alwaysseventhbest:

So, if you’re under 20 and you live in Seattle, there’s this really cool conference called TEDxRedmond. And you can come even if you’re like 120 but your ticket is FREE if you’re under 20.

But that’s not the point of this post. The point is that we’re having a youth art gallery, and if you’re…

Reset.

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 21:27:13 -0700

Open. Close.

Better yet, hang it on the door.

I’ll wait until no one is around,

So I can freely stick my head out,

Grab between my fingers, hold tight,

Take command, break night;

And then, slowly, unbutton, unzip, untie,

Uninhibited simulations of what it holds

To get a glimpse of what could come to be.

On. Off.

Or perhaps, a fixed blank stare; that,

Leaves me unable to read

What your eyes now eagerly try to disclose.

I can’t understand them for mine remain

Distant in that blank stare you first gave

When you shook my hands, and politely tried to

Fake delight, when it actually resided elsewhere.

In. Out.

Or right in between. Stuck in the middle.

Too afraid to move

Up or down;

a definite position is terrifying to embrace.

Living halfway, just as unbearable.

What to do, I ask myself, over burnt toast

and an emptying glass of hope.

Wait, replies the draft that escapes from under the door.

Same door that hung uninhibited simulations

Of what could come to be, but hasn’t yet come to pass.

Reset. Wait… Enjoy.

By Ginel Salvador

To Sun

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 21:27:11 -0700

Sun who feels the changing of day

Modestly like an unending

Cycle of beautiful life

How fortunate! For us

That we may live on this earth!

O Sun! Be thankful

Of your people’s worship

You are one of many names

Yet in the end, you are the same

As Sunset you are a beauty show, the

Winding-down of the day

As Sunrise you are majestic

Like a queen you rise

To greet your subjects

Hope disguised in gold

How fortunate we are! Yet often

Ignorant of your beauty and

Importance!

Without you what would life be

On this world shadowed in darkness?

Colorless, tasteless and bland

Without you to guide the plants to sprout

There is a fragile cycle of life

Of which you are the beginning

And as you age, ever more

Stunning

Your sunset deeper

Of more marbled shades

So becoming to your

Perfect figure

Let us embrace you

When you come, for

How fortunate! For us

That we may live on this earth!

Two queens poem - by Ginel Salvador

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 21:27:00 -0700

(I would appreciate your critique on this) Queen of Concealment. And, Queen of acetate White. The wind does not discriminate When it dances with their hair; Yet luck has kissed Concealment’s fleshy cheeks And teases the other with a song of promised favor. In Whiteness, all colors can shine through, But Black keeps the eye comfortably unaware… Too much of a good thing can overwhelm, and too much of a bad thing numbs. Such intoxicating stupefaction has the starved and thirsty peasantry feeding off of poisoned dishes and salted water. Foods that, in the darkness of their senses, they can’t tell is killing them… Translucent queen can only offer reality: A basket with a few rotten apples, almost stale bread, and forgettable meals; blended ups and downs, balanced joy and sorrow, a melancholic smile with bright, beaming eyes, sharp words laced with the softest whisper of good will, The beauty of variety entwined with the calming consolation of imperfection… This Raw queen’s heart longs for an embrace that won’t break at the sight of tantrums or demands of affection, and This queen weeps because no one can withstand the clarity. Capricious, sweet queen; and, Tempestuous, genuine queen. Hidden trash is better than exposed truths, it seems. Pretense has become the Capricious queen’s favorite perfume, and she wears it under the sheets and when she speaks to God. Pretense has become the Explosive queen’s most hated scent, yet she is forced to breathe in its stench. However, in the end, light swallows the shadows and truth triumphs over the best construed lies. The queens are left to mend themselves: one for murdering all who loved her, and the other one to clean up the carcasses. Ginel Salvador

candyland - by Adora Svitak

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 23:26:23 -0700

The candy-colored bows flutter to the ground like so many

Cakes imploding,

Whipped cream whites, mint greens, striped red and lemon-drop yellow

A heap on the ground,

As if a hurricane barreled through Willy Wonka’s factory and took

All it liked

Transforming it into fabrics and whispers and words—

So cloyingly,

We play on our verandahs of candy-colored facades,

Evil like

The witch with the gingerbread house entrancing Hansel and Gretel

Only we do not know what we do,

Only we are lost in the forest too.

The Power of Friendship (written for a homesick friend)

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 15:00:00 -0700

Submitted by Sarah.

The world may seem a lonely place

Where comfort is brought by a familiar face

And when one travels far from home

And finds themself so, so alone,

It is hard to find warmth, and comfort, and care,

When you’re far away, and your loved ones aren’t there.

When thought of them brings on a tear,

Being far from the ones whom you hold most dear,

It is hard to be brave, to be bold, to be strong,

But to feel alone can’t be nearer to wrong!

Because no matter how far away they are,

They’ll love you forever, you’re their shining star.

So whether you’re sad, or you’re caught in a snare,

Remember: your friends will always be there.

Can we submit some haiku poetry?

Sun, 10 Jun 2012 20:16:23 -0700

Of course!

how we can continue to write and write without feeling bored? I love writing novels, but sometimes I'm bored and I made not to continue writing.

Tue, 05 Jun 2012 22:24:33 -0700

Try writing about really crazy ideas that you haven’t dreamed up since childhood. That should bring anyone out of a bored funk :) But it totally is possible to over-write; sometimes you just need to take a break and switch to another creative activity like dance or drawing, or maybe even try some geometry, to appreciate writing again.

hey, do you give critique? thanks!

Tue, 05 Jun 2012 22:23:33 -0700

Not really, just because I’m super busy this year, but I definitely edit the work that gets uploaded here to WWA if it needs editing to meet the blog’s guidelines.

Have you ever read any of Rabindranath Tagore's poetry before? What types of poems do you usually write?

Tue, 05 Jun 2012 22:22:58 -0700

Yes, I have! I’m a big fan of “Let My Country Awake.”
I used to write pretty much exclusively rhyming poems, but now I write a ton of free verse stuff. You can check out a lot of my recent poems at adorapoems.blogspot.com (I post pretty much everything here, so it can be a mixed bag) to see more of my style (to the extent that I have one.)

Sharing Poetry: Nicolette Stasko, "The Moth and the Moon"

Thu, 17 May 2012 21:21:31 -0700

Sharing Poetry: Nicolette Stasko, "The Moth and the Moon":

sharingpoetry:

I

Tonight the moon is a perfect…
not quite but nearly sickle
its edges clearly cut
as a white flower in a dim garden
a bone kicked up
on a forest floor
if I bend my knees slightly
and look
I can change its position
maneuvering it
into the shivering branches
of the bare ash tree

II

This morning…