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About Literature / Hobbyist Core Member Andrew Liu20/Male/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
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Given by thetaoofchaos
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My first impression of this piece is that it isn't too ambitious and is written mostly for therapeutic purposes. I honestly didn't thin...

Hello, I will be critiquing your piece on behalf of :icongrammarnazicritiques:. I will do my best to help by suggesting improvements that can be made and genera...



I never considered myself a musical expert. Can't read scores, not a whole nor a half note. Forget about classical. I once confused Beethoven's Fifth for a Bach concerto. Oh, but it was lovely all the same. As are you.
I don't quite recall why I was so attracted to you, where I found you, where I came to realize that you were not only new and bright and beautiful, but after those first few bars came in, after that dream-like opening, it was apparent to me that you were not merely an unfamiliar and novel sound, but weirdly essential.
I don't remember everything. But I remember what I felt.
Somewhere, in the years to come, an old man will carry himself to the front of the concert, where the music is loudest. He has come with his grandchildren, they are in the difficult waters of adolescence, they have come because they trust their grandfather not to disappoint them when it comes to art, when it comes to music. He will strain against the railing, strain against the weight of his cane, just as he strains against the weight of the silence that has haunted him in his hearing and his loss of it. That old man, deaf, almost blind, with glasses thicker than the bottom of a mug, will stand and feel the air thicken with the falling sun. Though he cannot hear it, the memory plays on in his mind, clearer than the world could ever be, for it has been years since the world was this clear. And it is in this memory, this replay, that I exist at all. That's me there, standing at the front, music blasting through my aged frame. I'm so old, I look like a dead leaf in winter, every string on the guitar sends earthquakes through my bones. I am dead center. I am swallowed by music. I am completely alive.
I can wave goodbye to this. I can easily forget what I don't feel. But when you are here and on repeat, and the lead singer is haunting the air with all his wariness, his extreme wisteria, I imagine I will be listening to you and your strange body for years. The cloudy beginning, the mist of a dream, the coming night. The lovers and their distance. Clouds rolling as the sun sets. The bright jewels that shine at the end. First the track. And then the memories. Whichever wears out first, I will exist forever in the world inside you, this music.  
To Pachuca Sunset by Minus the Bear
For :iconletters-to-myself: 's August prompt: Letter to a Melody
The petals look like stars
falling from clustered grapes
each its own galaxy, each its own
unknowable world. High,
floating high
on the heavy night breeze
as if on a sea of air, a boat
thin as a peel of paper
overturns itself
in its escape
from a burning tree.
I go, into the house that faces the sea.
I leave my shoes, there on the rocks
the waves break against. Nothing moves
in this tower, and so the sea moves
for everything. The wind and the foam
edges to a tattered world broken
by a pillar of stone and sky.
The door yawns open
and I rise.

Into the house of many rooms,
into the boneyard and scrap heap
of youth and living tombs.
Into our own heart, we surrender
to the foul air and learn to breath
with only our mouths. Let us go.

In the hollow rooms I hear them clash
the young man and the beast beneath
the yellow rocks, the stones stained red,
the harmony of meat breaking chain.
And in the pit where the bones grow,
enormous stamens to a thousand lilies,
the blood leaps out at you here.
Pure as snow, untouched by sand or dust,
flowing like water, rising out of the ground
like full-blown roses.

It's here where Ariadne sits and I sit too.
Watching the boy clash with manhood.
I want to say something but the air seems
not to know what it is I say, reflecting it back
faithfully, without understanding. But she looks
inside the air, inside its confused stomach,
picks it out, the words tumbling and upset,
what original meaning had once been digested.
And she looks at me and I look at her too.
And we share that same lone look all
must share, should they open to it. And she kindly,
sets it adrift, those thousand meanings floating
in the river of air, like candles on the water
lighting the path of the dead. And
we watch the stupid boy wrestling
with the soft-eyed, stone-limbed Minotaur,
watch as they go down
into the sand, into the blood
that stays its own form, not mingling, detached,
refusing to touch the fate of others. I

see them, I hold myself, up
in that circle of stone
on a hard rock stool, there,
I grow tired, and I watch
the light pass over them,
the suns and moons that will go wasted.
Without pause, I echo out a name.
Yet both heads turn to face me.
The instability of twilight, the coming
of night, the coming in, the ghost,
the women you cannot know, you cannot
form words to mouth, you cannot even
mouth them, in the darkness, and then
after all the cups sipped quiet, after all the nights
spent supping, and the flavor of your life like
the dull metal of a coffee spoon, and after all
that universe, after the peach you were afraid
to know, and in the darkness of it all
the waves crashing over your fragmented form,
did you know, did you come to know
anyone at all? anything? and in the darkness
where your limbs began to grow
a great, a terrible tree that stretched to appease
no god, no world, but in this sea
of your own making, to satisfy the dark void
oiling your own, and in the darkness we came
to see it all. Monstrous and developed
like an amalgamation of body paragraphs,
more terrible than a thesis, more devastating
than the third degree burns of failure,
we came to see you, see you off,
we came to reseal your elaborate grave.
In any body is a proof
that things have to be
smaller, more elaborate,
yet condensed. The fact is,
that this is arbitrary, everything
done out of necessity is only
needed for some decided end, and
that end is not always something
that breathes, that suffers, that needs
to happen. In any body is a proof
that even after going through
endless cycles of pain
you can still be alive
albeit smaller, less elastic,
more set in your ways, harder,
and thinner, without the possibility
of change. Like a disease that eats you
away. And after all that, after all the putting
on of airs, of furs and graces, all that adoption
of voice and mask and children to make you feel
larger, what will you make of your emerging
scar tissue? And if everyone's a hypocrite
so what then, so what, let's talk then
hypocrite to hypocrite. What it is
that makes you fire up in fear.
And after all that standing in place,
all that negative space, what will you eat,
what will you fill your mouth with then?
In anybody is the proof that even after
all this pain, you can still be alive.

Suggested Reading

Journal Entry: Fri Apr 24, 2015, 12:29 PM

Was going through top ten sites and browsing randomly. Here's some poems I found:

"Diameter" by Michelle Y. Burke…

I like it for the way it puns on Diameter/Demeter. I like it for the way it compares stemming the gap of grief with geometry problems of circumference and diameter. I like it for the way it looks at grief as a solvable problem, even though it isn't. I like the way it approaches the impossible world after death.

"Factory Town" by Austin Smith…

I never knew you could enjamb like that. Turn smokestacks into cigarettes, trains into wedding veils. A river! A horse running from a gunshot.

"Casa" by Rigoberto Gonzalez

It's like Plath's "Mirror" but a thousand times more angry. Whereas Mirror is totally objective until the woman peers into the lake of the second stanza, thus filling it with all the human vulnerabilities and anxious hand-wringing of a dying body, "Casa" refuses to sympathize with anything that fills it. All the abnormalities and variations on normality play through years in this house, this speaker, so hollow, so empty, because in the end it is just a set of walls. It is not alive. It does not care about you or anyone. It feels nothing. But it sees you so clearly for the broken parts, its dispassionate voice and annoyance at your sentiment and human needs, it cannot help but mix its stone with its echoing music.…

"Government Spending" by Patricia Lockwood

Because it is damn funny. The funniest poet I've ever read. Fuck Edward Lear, fuck Kenneth Koch. This is irony in a tutu and steel umbrella. This is poetry with genuine mirth.…

"Preface to a Twenty-Volume Suicide Note" by Amiri Baraka

I'm working with narrative free verse. This is good narrative free verse. What's more to say?…

"Love" by Lloyd Schwartz

It's long but the ending is so worth it.…


Andrew Liu
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Andrew Liu, 20, student at East Los Angeles College, loves to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles in the Getty Villa. I've been writing since 2007 and I started poetry in 2011. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians) and fantasy (Cry of the Icemark, American Gods, Good Omens). I mostly write poetry. I switched over from prose because I could never manage to finish writing short stories. I write as a hobby but hope to make a career out of teaching and writing.

I'm an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are varied: Cathy Song "Cloud Moving Hands", Sharon Olds "The Elder Sister" & "I Go Back to May, 1937", Sylvia Plath "Mirror" & "Fever 103", Mark Doty "Tiara", Elizabeth Bishop "The Fish", and Muriel Rukeyser "Song for Dead Children."

If I were to summarize my writing style in three words it would be: lush, dream-like, and intense. People have always told me that I'm very good at imagery and description, but not so much at editing or making sure my work flows effortlessly.

Other hobbies I have include video games, anime, and more reading I guess. All time favorite video games: Folklore (PS3), Bastion (PC), Dust: An Elysian Tale (PC), Persona 4 (PS2). All time favorite animes: Natsume Yuujinchou (Natsume's Book of Friends), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (Magical Girl Madoka), Nodame Cantabile, Ao no Exorcist (Blue Exorcist-manga only), and Magi (again, manga only). All time favorite books: Caramelo (Sandra Cisneros), American Gods (Neil Gaiman), The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Asterios Polyp (David Mazzuchelli), Like Water For Chocolate (Laura Esquivel), and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury).



Add a Comment:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2015
Thank you for the favorite!
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner May 21, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hello Andrew.  Thank you kindly for the fave.  :)
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner May 22, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome. Hey, do you give critiques or feedback?
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner May 23, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Sure.  I occasionally do.  I don't go too deep, because I'm not super-technically trained (or skilled). Why do you ask?  Is there a piece you'd like looked at?
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner May 23, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Yeah. Is it okay if I note you?
Grimful-Recitals Featured By Owner May 18, 2015  Student Writer
Great page :) Would you care to critique some of my work? Keep it up:)
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner May 18, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you. Looking over your work, I don't feel I have anything constructive to say. You too.
AngoraART Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2015  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you for the llama badge! :)

Bunny Emoji-87 (Thanks) [V5] Llama Emoji-03 (Sparkles) [V1]
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2015   General Artist
hello there, lovely person! :huggle:
this is to inform you that i have made use of one of the titles of your poetry in my title poem over here: :love:
i hope that this is alright with you, pray that you enjoy the read, and thank you for your inspirational artistry! :eager: <3
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