Infinite Darkness of the Soul

Update - New Blog Home

2006-04-18T22:03:00.000-04:00

I decided to copy the blog over to my own domain. All of the posts found here up until now have been copied over, and posts from now on will most likely be on the new location only. I am very happy with this change, because I believe that the WordPress tools, and the flexibility of using our own server, will really improve this endeavor.

Please visit the new home of Infinite Darkness of the Soul.

-E

Poem - Quiet Fervor

2006-04-18T21:53:00.000-04:00

Once we embraced in the dewy grass,
underneath the pitch of night
Admiring the diamonds
that danced in the Heavens
While the world rested as a languid cat
on the backs of heros and giants.

Our silence spoke volumes,
telling secrets of our histories to the Lord of the Wind.

Originally written in March 2006.

Technorati Tags: poem, poetry, fervor, love, devotion
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

Update - Blog Downtime

2006-04-07T10:49:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the lack of new poems or posts, but I have had some personal issues, as well as a death in the family. Needless to say, I am having a bad month. Regardless of personal issues, I will be posting some new stuff very shortly. I must admit that right now my new 'poems' are merely fragments. I have been unable to write a full construct, as it were. I have decided to post some of these anyway, so bear in mind they may reappear later on in full, and edited form.

Thank you for your patience.

E.

Poem - Secrets Among Willows

2006-03-09T20:50:00.000-05:00

The old house seems to shrink away
    from the great willows enshrouding it.
Glorious trees, so full and imposing
With branches entwined,
    an army of Mother Nature.
Aged beings, shading the ground
    from the fierce and angry Sun.
In the cool silent evening, the willows
    whisper to one another
Sharing quiet secrets among them.

Originally written in March 2006.

Technorati Tags:
willow trees, peace, secrets, nature

Poem - Gone

2006-03-04T09:43:00.000-05:00

The clock hangs against the
    stark white wall
    the works long broken,
    no ticking is heard.
Tiles as cold as steel in Winter,
    line the long corridors -
    they make a satisfying clicking
    as hard-sole shoes beat down.

Cries, screams, sobs and laughter
    echo throughout.
Forgotten souls lost in time
    and space
             without family
                friends or hope.
No one listens, no one understands.

Medicated and fumbling with words,
    movement and wakefulness.
Drowning in loneliness and barely aware
    of the world beyond the filthy,
    barred windows.
Numb
        and falling
            away

Originally written in February 2006

Technorati Tags:
asylum, insanity, poetry, poem, loneliness, depression

Musings - Make Money Blogging

2006-03-01T20:58:00.000-05:00

Blogging is a wonderful way for people to create. While not all blogs may seem 'earth-shattering', they are still a journal of their blogger's writing. While writing is a labor of love for many, it can also be a way to earn money.

If you like to write about music, why not make money from music-related affiliate programs? Or better yet, make money blogging about different advertisers. There is a beta program which matches your blog with advertisers that are willing to pay you for just blogging about them. You choose what you want to promote, and you make money. Nothing could be easier.

Technorati Tags:
blogging, make money blogging, affiliate programs, blog

Musings - Poetry Podcasts

2006-03-01T17:10:00.000-05:00

While browsing through PRWeb's extensive collection of press releases on poets and artists, I came across a release for Cloudy Day Art. The blog is very well organized, pleasant to look at, and it is obvious that the creator, Will Brown (also a poet), really wants to make it work. New and unknown poets can find a home within the Cloudy Day Art podcasts.

I must admit that I am new to the whole podcast craze, but the idea of podcasts for poets is unique and wonderful to me. I sit here and blog away on several blogs, just hoping for a kind word, and here we have a medium in which people can hear your words with real emotion, and respond. I think this may become a writer's best friend in the not-so-distant future. After all, human beings just want to be heard, don't we?

Technorati Tags:
poetry, podcast, ipod, writing show, poet

Poem - Child Lost

2006-02-27T17:02:00.000-05:00

Child ignored, never good enough
Beaten with words and fists,
    bloodied and still yearning
    for approval.
Quiet and shy, always fearing to breathe.
Insulted, taunted, degraded -
    You are too ugly, too fat
    ...so stupid and useless.
Mother stands by -
    You are making him angry
    ...Do you want to be punished?

I never wanted it, never asked for it,
    never deserved it - not ever.
Midnight raids of my bedroom, watching
    my pets murdered, praying that you
    would stop - would die.
I was a child, unwanted by father,
    by step-fathers, by everyone.

Now an adult, broken, lost and confused
    by my own feelings.
Still the ugly little girl, unsure
    and insignificant.
A mother begging for the strength
    to be a better parent -
        a better parent than you were to me.

Originally written in February 2006.

Technorati Tags:
poem, poetry, poet, child abuse, depression, bad parenting

Poem - Untitled

2006-02-06T08:29:00.000-05:00

A sad and aging figure, sighing softly
Sings a song never heard.
Mourning lost chances, lost loves,
    and loss for the sake of loss.
All of the wisdom and life experiences
    can not bring fulfillment.
Grey surrounds, the clouds hang heavy.
The wind feels like a thousand biting
    whips against hot, welting skin.

Originally written in January 2006.

Technorati Tags:
poem, poetry, old age, sad, life, poet

Musings - Writing as Therapy

2006-02-02T14:56:00.000-05:00

Lately it has occurred to me that many novice writers write to try to achieve fame. This motivation is all wrong. When I write, I write to get my feelings out. I tend to bottle things up inside, so the only logical way to ease the tension and prevent heart failure, is to write. As with any art form, writing is a creative outlet for those of us that have a certain level of dysfunction that seems to hold us back in our real life.

I know that right about now, you may feel personally offended. But this is not an attack on writers - this is a fact. When is the last time you have heard of a writer or painter that didn't have some quirk? Perhaps we don't all cut our own ears off, but we do have little ticks. Everyone does. But the creative ones, they have ticks and know it. Most non-creative types are not in tune with these imperfections in themselves, or are able to ignore them. I suppose this is a good thing. After all, "Ignorance is bliss." And so we write. We write to isolate ourselves from the idiots in our lives, to play out our most private emotions through our characters, and to just be ourselves.

These writers that write for profit are never going to achieve their goals. Not until they realize that their writing needs to come from within. Not be sifted through a sieve of mainstream consumerism. If you write for the average Joe, you will never achieve fulfillment, stand out from other writers of your genre, or even make a decent income. You will simply lose what is unique about you, and end up being one of those authors you never heard of, found in the bargain bin at the checkout.

Accept constructive criticism if it is valid, but do not let one editor that fails to realize your uniqueness is an asset, tell you your writing is no good. If Stephen King had given up, the world would have lost a unique, wonderful writer. Write for yourself, and don't quit your day job.

Technorati Tags:
writing, writer, creative, famous writers

Poem - Speechless

2006-01-31T16:17:00.000-05:00

Once a knife cut quick and true.
Words stung like alcohol as the
    gash bled with no remorse.
The heart grew cold and began
    to harden to grey stone.

The night was cold too - as cold
    as his gaze.
As dark as the Abyss, and as stale
    as a tomb.
The wound seemed to grow as the
    anguish built.
Struggling for words and for air.
Never spoken were those words, and
    never to be heard for eternity.

The scar remains a constant reminder.
To be forever barely healed, but fully felt.
If ever the darkness comes again,
    the wound will awaken, and bleed once more.

Will the courage ever come?
Courage is lost and drowning in denial.
Can the voice ever reawaken?
Gasping and choking, words will die.
When will the seering pain subside?
In death all feelings are lost.

Gewissensbisse füttern die Finsternis. (Remorse feeds the darkness.)

Originally written in January 2006.

Technorati Tags:
poetry, poem, remorse, Abyss, German

Poem - Karlchen

2006-01-23T10:14:00.000-05:00

Cherished boy - my beloved son.
Angelic, devilish, loving and hateful
    all at once, without remorse.
A beautiful baby full of life and love.
So appreciative of the things we take for granted.

The sun brings a smile, an airplane,
    the excited wide-eyed stare.
Oblivious to the bad inside others,
    happy to share a toy, a smile, a giggle.
A child - the only reason we exist.
A child - so often taken for granted and abused.

My child, my baby, my slap in the face of
    the world.
He breathes, he dreams, he embraces
    song and dance.

I wish him all of the happiness I have
    been deprived of, and all of the
    happiness his heart can hold.
    joy, and passion - but none of my sadness,
    tears or defeats.

One who has a child they nurture and love,
    never loses their dreams.
Their dreams are passed on, allowed to flourish
    and take new shape.
A child is the one right in a world of wrongs.

Originally written in January 2006. Dedicated to my two-year old son, Karl.

Technorati Tags:
poem, poetry, poet, family, son

Musings - The Desperate Poet

2006-01-20T15:01:00.000-05:00

I have found that searching for poetry contests on Google is a little like walking into a bar and announcing that you will give $10 to anyone that can make you a model. Every person there will claim they can do it, just to get your money. There are so many sites that claim to be legitimate contests for struggling poets. While there are many contests worth entering, even for a small fee, there are still more that will promise a free chance to win - but with strings attached.

A perfect example of this is poetry.com, and the many guises they work under. If you check out this link, you will see exactly how discriminating they are in their search for quality poems. They essentially tell anyone and everyone, including your high school gym teacher with poor grammatical skills, that they are a finalist. Then, when all is said and done, they will send you order forms for vanity items featuring your poem. This is how they make money, and how you get laughed out of a publisher's office. These vanity scams are costly for a poet, in more ways than one. The uneducated poet thinks they now have some real credibility, after all, their poem on carpet lint was chosen out of thousands of other poems, and they end up buying useless merchandise as well. Then this poet says to GQ Publisher, "I've been published in poetry.com's anthology, because I was a finalist (or winner)." This publisher snickers and wonders what rock you crawled out from under.

Poets are far better off getting published in low paying (or even no pay) e-zines and magazines, or paying a small application fee to a legitimate contest. The key here is research. Do a Google search for poetry contest scams, or refer to the above link. If it sounds too good to be true, and if five sites you have come across say it is a scam, then it is. Just brush it off and move on.

Technorati Tags:
poetry, poet, writing, poetry contest, scams

Poem - Mother's Blood

2006-01-18T19:38:00.000-05:00

Waves crashing upon the rocks below,
    forever crashing and singing.
The song of the ocean is beautiful and
    dangerous; loud but peaceful.
Nature's children are forever alive.
Long after the human race dies,
    Nature will still breath.

Originally written in May 1995

Technorati Tags:
poetry, gothic, poem, poet, mother, dark poetry

Musings - Interpretation

2006-01-18T16:38:00.000-05:00

It has always been my opinion that great poetry is written so that anyone reading it may have a completely different opinion than that of another reader, and that all of these interpretations may be totally different than what the writer had in mind.

Sound complicated? It's not. Forget what you learned in your Intro to Lit class. It is all well and good to analyze great literature, but to assume that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt what the writer was thinking is egotistical. I am not saying that all interpretations of Poe are wrong, or that no one really has a clue what Shakespeare was writing about. What is important is not what interpretations are right or wrong. The importance lies in the individual interpretation. What does this piece say to you? How does it make you feel? If it speaks to you on a personal level, then this is a great piece of literature. And as a reader, you don't need to feel ashamed if a poem mirrors your sadness, or anger. This should bring you joy to know that these feelings are not unusual.

Poetry is all about the interpretation. This is the wonderful thing that sets poetry and prose apart from other types of writing. In other fiction, the writer is holding your hand and walking you through everything. A poet is dropping you off in the middle of the woods and driving away, leaving you to your own devices. Now what could be more intriguing than that?

Technorati Tags:
literature, poetry, interpretation, philosophy, poem

Poem - Road of Flowers

2006-01-17T19:57:00.000-05:00

On a road paved with flowers,
    a majestic beast stands.
Body and form of a horse, golden horn upon
    its head with a mane of the purest white.

It speaks the name "Aurora," in a
    beautiful voice of the sweetest music.

"Aurora, our beautiful princess of
Purity and Light, come back to us...
Come back to your Realm!"

A tear, the color of a clear blue sky in
    spring, runs down the face of the Unicornis.

In a flash of white light, a figure of beauty
    appears on the road.
A young woman dressed in the shades of
    the rainbow with sparkling, auburn hair
    and eyes of grey, stands in front of the majestic beast.

She mounts the Unicornis, and together they
    travel the road of flowers.

Originally written in 1995

Technorati Tags:
poet, poetry, unicorn, fantasy, writing, poem, love

Poem - To Sea

2006-01-17T16:36:00.000-05:00

I wait here, in this ship on a sea of icy glass.
The tattered sail - sewn from skins - breaks hard
    against the raging wind.

Fighting albatross, I pace the deck.
Still water belies the sky's rage, but hides
    its own rage below.

With my knife, I cut the sails, wanting to
    stay here in this place.
Quiet and serene, the old ship sighs, and I sink
    to the deck in a dreamy state.

So peaceful, this rotting vessel never knew
    such calm - I have never known this much calm.
The smell of salt, the air's chill, and the moisture
    upon the wood are all that I need while I wait for oblivion.

Originally written in November 2005

Poem - Mother's Love

2006-01-15T10:51:00.000-05:00

Hatred born of mother's rejection.
Self-contained and festering in the wound,
    teeming with parasites - bleeding youth.

Will to live sucked into the vacuum, and
    happiness lost within the chaos.
Gaining speed the emptiness overcomes -
    the hurt twists and gnaws through bone.
No care, no love, no compassion...

All sound is gone - only the dying heartbeat remains.
Clouds of disease spread like blood in the street.
The gentle touch becomes a cold clasp of bony fingers,
    puncturing the flesh.
Soothing words become a scream - silent but
    menacing to see.

Lost in time, reason no more, blinded by guilt
    and bleeding to death.
Emptiness fills me like love fills the heart of a dreamer -
    but all my dreams become nightmares
    and riddles with no answers.

Leaning forward, I look into the darkness, trying to
    see the demons that dwell there.
I see her face instead - grimacing and mocking me.
The eyes pierce my soul so violently I sway,
    back away, and fall to my knees.

Faster the ground comes to meet me, and then
    the damp earth shrouds me in old death.
I see her with me - always there.

Originally written in November 2005

Technorati Tags:
poetry, gothic, poem, poet, mother, dark poetry

Musings - Sex, Lies & Diapers

2006-01-09T08:40:00.000-05:00

I am so tired... I used to have energy, and stay up all night and sleep all day. Now I am up late, and often, with my two-year old son. But I do not get to sleep late. I am up by 6:30 AM every morning - if not earlier. Having kids is hazardous to a writer's life. I used to crank out at least four poems a week, while in college and working. Now staying at home with a toddler, I am lucky to write one every two weeks.

I am feeling the stress of maturity in my writing. People used to compliment my writing style, years ago. However, my style has changed so much with age, realization of certain factors in my life, marriage, staying at home with a child, and the completely dysfunctional state of this country. Yes, I stress about this country, and count the days until we can move to Germany or Switzerland. I fear raising my son in a country where they pretend we are free, but apparently not free to curse or show nudity, report on what the government is REALLY doing, not have religion shoved down our throats, or be inundated with how the world was created by God. As though evolution is a lie conjured up by scientific communities all over the world. How about the lies conjured up by the author of the Bible? Or religious leaders protecting their investment in wars and the torture of Pagans throughout history? The biggest lie in the world today is in the form of a leader (to use the term very loosely) - a Republican with not even the same level of intelligence as his father. One has to wonder, does this make him more or less dangerous?

At any rate, I need to get moving on my writing. I have several short stories written in first draft form, but having time to edit and rewrite - that is the tricky part. I need to type up my collection of poems from all time - so there should end up being an interesting assortment of poems on this blog in the future. Maybe I should change the blog name to "Elizabeth: The Good, The Bad, and the Horrid".

Technorati Tags:
poetry, Bush, Dubya, politics, rants, writing, spying, freedom

Poem - Eutopia

2006-01-03T14:01:00.000-05:00

Fragmented memories of a time forgotten
Cloud the present and lay a foundation of doubt.
Skeletal fingers reach through the window of the mind,
Stealing the joy that lies there in repose.
The smile of a child, the touch of your lover, all fond things
Are unsafe when time creeps into your body.
Age removes your life from you, bit by bit, memory by memory,
And tenderness is replaced by confusion.
Struggling helps only for a short time, while all weapons
Available to you are lost to disrepair, dysfunction and years.
Search for that which is hidden from the mind,
Open locked doors – another door appears.
While you rush, age writhes and reaches for the most
Precious of this life's gifts.
Life and Love are given at birth, but so quickly then are taken away.
Mother's love lost, the child's love lost, and the lover is lost too.
So much at stake, but soon too, all bad memories will be taken.
Then days remaining will be in ignorant bliss, while others look
Into you wondering why you do not remember.
Soon they will know why, and a simpler life will take them
To your place, where memory can no longer stab and torment.

Originally written in December 2005

Technorati Tags:
poetry, gothic, poem, poet, alzheimers, dark poetry

Poem - Toy Soldier

2005-12-27T10:03:00.000-05:00

Spiraling through darkness
Screaming out in denial – blazing in flames of fury
Marching in step, oblivious to pain
Carrying the burden of everyone's torment
Try to see ahead only to be blinded by the past
Despondent and suffering, step in line
Mindless and without identity, march on
Go forth and conquer
Trudge on and placate
Spoken only in half truths and riddles
Words have little meaning
Feelings are misguided and chaotic
Happiness and security are fleeting
Sadness and Anger are all consuming
But everything ends – the good, the bad, the all...
And everything begins with just one moment
Then free fall until it's over
Fall in and follow the lead
Divide and be conquered by thine self
Await the trial and face the verdict
Gone is innocence, lost are the dreams
Pride and ignorance, gather false courage
Lose the battle and be swept into the war

Originally written in November 2005

Technorati Tags:
soldier, poem, poetry, lies, Bush, Iraq, dark poetry

Poem - Birth

2005-12-21T16:22:00.000-05:00

She looks into the mirror and sees the monster's glistening eyes.
Teeth Bared - the lips pulled away to nothingness
The wild hair, darkened eyes and blood red cheeks
A scream rips through the night, and crashes into the void.

Feeling the loathing and hatred build,
    she smashes her fists into the glass
    - a small child's stifled cries are heard.
Stopping, she turns and listens for the heartbeat.
The smell of life rises up - the stench of death clouds her.

Shivering, her wet body begins to convulse.
Eyes rolled back, the sickness wells up in
    her throat and she gags.
As she backs against the wall,
    she sees the bloody trail on the floor.
The heart beats violently - she wretches violently.
The monster's eyes are drawn downwards -
    a soft gurgling is suddenly cut off.

The fetus dangles from between her thighs.
Glinting silver, the knife falls to the floor.
In the darkness, the child smiles.

Originally written November 15, 2005

Musings - Hello from the Inside

2005-12-16T09:37:00.000-05:00

What is 'normal'? Someone who attends a church? Has 3 kids and a spouse of the opposite sex? A person who would never say anything 'off-color', politically incorrect, or 'dark'?

If these are normal, I'll pass.

I have a little boy and a husband (I'm a woman), cook and clean for my family, and do freelance marketing and writing. I also happen to write some very dark poetry - the kind that makes religious people grab their crucifix in an attempt to cleanse their immediate area and protect them from Satan. Some people might call my writing an abomination, I call it passion. In the few attempts I made to write something 'positive' it felt forced - it felt like a lie. Pick up the newspaper, listen to the news. Bad things happen everyday. People kill other people. What is their motivation? What makes them tick? Maybe they would not kill another human being if they had only learned to express themselves through poetry. I have joked that if not for poetry, I might be a serial killer. I don't think so, but you never know, do you?

In an attempt to focus my personal writing efforts so that I may actually get around to putting a book together, I have decided to start a personal poetry blog. Some of the poems are good - damn good. Some may not be as good, but they needed to be written. Either way, they are all mine, and I am not sorry for writing any of them. Period.