Post your creative writing here?
Hey forum friends,
While I was away (moving house–thank God I no longer live in a cornfield) a whole bunch of poems appeared on the TB news thread in response to the much-lamented departure of Solar Dyneema. It occurred to me that while there is a lot of attention on Solar right now, perhaps the entire TB color roster deserves a shout-out. So, I wrote a poem that incorporates the name of every current available TB color (including Solar, Hemp, and Cork but minus Universal Camouflage, which in my mind is not really a color because you're not supposed to see it–derp).
This ended up being pretty awesome because I have not written any poetry in a long time, which is particularly embarrassing because my creative track in college was, um, poetry. I know there are a bunch of other writers here on the forum, and maybe some of you would like to share? Please feel free to PM me with any criticism--though I suppose if you would like to criticize me publicly that's fine too. And yes, I already know some parts sound stilted, which is what happens when you are trying to incorporate nouns like "kiwi" and "ultraviolet."
Also, if anyone wants to collaborate on any TB-inspired writing, hit me up.
See the poem in the very next post!
College kids, if you plagiarize this I swear by all that is holy that
I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.
Now, having dispensed that word to the wise, here's my poem, kindly peer-reviewed by Mrs B. Don't forget to look for your favorite TB color!
The Whole of the World
Here, hear my friends, the song of the travelers:
We are pilots and sailors, divers and painters; we
Take only what we can carry.
We are craftsmen and tailors, we are writers, we are spies–
Stowaway lookouts who glimpse from the masthead
The safety of port after the storm, the reassurance of
Someone else's navy.
We take what we can carry, and our backs are strong.
And what we hold in our hands is the trace of our origins,
Cradled like glass or just-hatched kiwi birds, wet and
Straining towards the sun.
Yet we are always already on pilgrimage,
Yearning for what is fleeting but eternal:
The light that floods the Iberian plains,
And the rust-red footprints left in Andalusian soil.
Twilight descending with hosts of bats;
The azalea and tourmaline flourishes of the Aurora Borealis.
The sublimity of a solar eclipse.
Hear now our understanding of the word seduction:
A plane ticket, a second-class fare, a strange bed
In a time zone somewhere not yesterday's;
A leaking tent on a pebbly inlet;
Cocoa sipped from a battered flask as
Mist rises up from the forest.
Orchards of apricot and plum give way to
Ranks of cornfields, dulcet with bees,
Stands of conifers, groves of bamboo.
Steaming rice paddies, harvests of lily bulb, wasabi,
Bracken and bird's nest.
Lengths of fishline drift with the tides, meandering like
Every route we have run, buoyed by points of interest:
Silk Road, Orient Express, Compostela, Station Island.
In the cathedrals we pass amber aumbries
Whose mysteries appear at intervals;
We pass beneath the blank, watchful eyes
Of long-dead cardinals, the gilt and turquoise reliquaries that
House the metatarsals of Saint This or The Other.
We move with the agility of dancers moving over warm cork floors,
We emerge into the ultraviolet hours of high summer, we
Turn to the crystalline sapphire sea.
Now in arid Medina, see the souks with their hoards of spice:
Hillocks of turmeric and sumac, mounds of
Cayenne and coriander–dust that is older than God.
Lumpy gemstones the size of olives and olives the size of an eye.
We take refuge under palms and hemp lean-tos; we
Watch the djinns shift the sand in ripples and eddies
Until in the evening it settles, a linen shroud white in dusk.
In the black of night is the whole of the world.
In the world is the promise of all the days to come.
What we cannot carry, we leave behind.
Every day writes the song that will save us;
Even as we rest, we ache for our first steps tomorrow,
And we steel ourselves.
We steel ourselves.