There was a time when poetry played a central role in our culture and civilization but today it has been pushed backstage. It occupies an obscure corner in our society - one knows the foremost poets of today. The classics still have their audience, their aura of mystery and attraction but poetry as a living mode of expression for our cultural experience has died.
Thoughts. What are you, O thoughts? The beginnings and endings. The journeys and destinations. The highs and lows. The transcendence of pleasures and pain's mighty blows. Are you these or are you more? What depths hide your origins? What drives you to death on abandoned shores?
"He was on a dear hunt in a grove near the forest. He caught sight of a beautiful doe with her child. The doe strangely left the grove and began running towards the forest. The King pursued it with his retainers behind him. The doe was fast — too fast."
The goon on the left held a sword. He swung it at Ghal. Ghal swiftly sidestepped and hit him in the arm with full force. The man cried and let go of the blade. Ghal was deft enough to catch it and chop off the offender's head. In a split second, he had it thrust into the stomach of the last attacker.
It disappeared slowly, the colors. They melted and blended into one another. The first one to go was red; she was fiery and youthful, spitting anger in every word she spoke.
Sanidar gave the sword one last look before placing it on the rack between the massive broadsword and the chest plate. He was exhausted, but the sword was complete at last. It had taken him weeks to forge it — melting raw iron ore and pouring it into ingots. Then came the long, excruciating task of annealing and hammering it into shape.
Let’s say you’re a human sitting beside a fire in a cave, 17000 years ago. You hear your tribe talking about today’s hunt – the number of deer caught is decreasing each passing day, they’re considering relocating to higher ground, perhaps they will find more reindeer there. In that moment, would it occur to you to draw your memories of the hunt on a cave wall?
Everybody was wet and cold — very cold which was strange in this temperate land. But the rain was relentless and it had been falling for weeks. So far it showed no signs of ceasing. Every hut in the village had become a stream now. Only the Chief's Hut had remained. The hut was built on an ancient tree...
We all make mistakes; no one is perfect. What will set you apart is your ability to identify and fix those mistakes. As writers, we make the most mistakes; our pieces are filled with grammatical errors, plot holes, contradictions, and wrong words. The essence is in not giving up.
The separation of Art and Religion in our minds is like the separation of the church and the State. Politics, however, is very different. Where art is an organic living thing, politics is a mechanistic process. Art finds worth in emotions, beliefs, ideas, and cultures - it feels, laughs, cries, and believes; whereas politics looks after power, benefit, and in rare cases, the commonwealth.