Those who reached the escape velocity necessary to truly write their own stories: e.g. Drukpa Kunley, Diogenes the Cynic, Hánshān, Ikkyū, Socrates, and the various Avadhuta.
PROMPT: Inspired
Reply
Those who reached the escape velocity necessary to truly write their own stories: e.g. Drukpa Kunley, Diogenes the Cynic, Hánshān, Ikkyū, Socrates, and the various Avadhuta.
What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?
I’m not sure whether this prompt is directed toward the culture of my ancestors (Irish) or the culture in which I was raised (American.) If it is the former, then the answer is certainly the great literary and poetic talent that was born of the culture (i.e. Yeats, Wilde, Shaw, Heaney, Beckett, Joyce, etc.) But if it is the latter, then it is certainly the great literary and poetic talent that was born of the culture (i.e. Whitman, Poe, Hemingway, Hughes, Twain, Dickinson, Faulkner, etc.)
An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk,
and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the
lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine
through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the
sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I heard the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery
mead.
The Writer’s Journey: In the Footsteps of the Literary Greats by Travis Elborough
Bohemian Manifesto: A Field Guide to Living on the Edge by Laren Stover
Echo and Critique: Poetry and the Clichés of Public Speech by Florian GargailloI exited through my old, mundane door, and heard a melody so blissful / sweet, and saw some colors never seen before. That song, those sights, danced me down the street. A neon breeze both warmed and cooled my face. The pleasure wave that I'd once known as sin was flaring, with no feelings of disgrace, but up my spine a trill of violin. Euphoric, I ran 'til I felt lungs burn -- so fired with energy that my bones hummed -- But as I felt the wheels begin to turn, I realized the depths must remain unplumbed. Before my druthers, I had to go back. To sustain this would give me a heart attack.