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About Literature / Hobbyist Premium 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...



Underneath the covers of the bed,
in the darkness of the single mind,
a bead of light grows. And from it,
a terrible signal, calling, calling,
beneath the sea of drowned stars,
we call it out. God.
His ancient stone face.
His terrible unmoving brow.
His eyes like black planets.
God, we call out, God.
Rooting around for a bit of incense,
a lamb, a nephew, for a neck to cut,
or a word to burn. No, it's
just a tawdry, meaningless bauble.
Never anything great to offer.
And he stands up and moves
across the sky, like an old woman
bones luminous as quartz or galena.
And he stands up and does not hear
our cries. And he is moving across
the empty room of the sky, a nurse,
an immigrant, a migrant crane,
a gossiping attendant, a feverish head,
a tax accountant, a distant, unfamiliar cousin
twice removed, who once,
without knowing your name or
looking up from his game,
refused to speak to you.
Speaking to God
Title comes from a Sylvia Plath quote referring to her act of praying for her dying father (diabetes, but he confused it as lung cancer T_T), "I'll never speak to God again." Lots of dimension to that quote. Could be misconstrued as a daughter equivalating her father with God; which comes with its own set of sexist/problematic connotations. Not to mention implicative of incest possibly, of father-worship definitely. But I love Sylvia Plath too much to even refer to her using the casual register and informal affection of the phrase "that crazy bitch", mostly because of the already heady atmosphere of criticism surrounding her work. Still, a complicated oversight deserves a complicated address. Hopefully, it's a direct address and not a P.O. box because we're American dammit. Luxury, even in its unconscious demand, remains an absolute necessity to our method of continuing. 
Into the darkness
of summer, this fluid
drinkable sea, that swells
like the night stars, like mother's stars
the night we were born. Into
the ashwork, into the farms
that breed the terrible hyacinths
of the night, veined gigantics,
lost in their flowering nebula, where we
once dwelled. On and on without end.
Into the forest of the night. Go on
where the trees breathe and speak only
of static, that they may hover and flesh
in the air, the empty air that molests
and thickens in their shocked mouths
the honeyed words of death, the cradle call.
We have been tricked. We have been lured out
of our bodies, our haven of flesh. O Fate,
O short-termed husband. We beg
your regret, stay its course, stay
your mourning, the night
swells with apathy. It will do
no good to come after us. We
who once dwelled in the light, return
to that place where stones emerge
and ghosts drag their bodies, haunting
themselves with the heavy curse
of memory. Where the river runs
on and on, salted with tears,
unsustainable, barren, filled, brimming
with dark water, blankets of offering coin
rattling into trash at the bottom of the boat.
Do not come. Persephone greets us
in her heavy winter coat. Her husband,
inexorable Death, walks lonely
through the isolated halls, the gardens
filled with empty jewels and bone-hard love.
He could not love her as once he loved her. Even here, ash falling
among the warped riches of his destitute kingdom, filling
the moon-drowned atrium like diseased snow, we can hear
the distance, the clamorous joy, the gold bells, the furious life
of paradise. O, golden city, even arrayed among green hills and
holy rings of laughter, how small you seem in the light of winter.
How tiny and petite. How much like a toy surrounded by
the fire-purged ruin of a childhood home. Walking there, barefoot,
the thistles worried against our soles, we pound on walls
overflowing with florals. We are refused at the door. The sky is nothing
but an empty room. In the season of our youth, where we died,
what little work we had done, building towards Elysium, began
to fall apart, undone by a viper, a bite, a bit of
poison rounding out our heart. Our season, our branches
filling out with flower, now tainted with the night sky. Never miss
the last day of summer. Never miss
the last moment of sun. As autumn approaches, hooves
pounding the dust road of time, churning the frigid air
with fire and wilting leaves. Clock's ablaze. No
escape. We dwell, continually dwell,
in the kingdom of the night. We, Persephone,
in our heavy winter coats, twin queens
drinking the cracked wine in our hearts
here, in the land of the dead. We wait.
We wait. We think we hear a voice.
A breeze rattling the night air, a bird
against the night sky, the first tulip
of spring, blazing. Here,
in the land of the dead.
A song.
And for a moment we dare.
But it's gone. Like smoke. In air.
A meaningless dance.
You cannot possibly be here
husband, our second little heart. O,
Persephone. Our lady
among the asphodel. Her smile
is filled with pity. Her dress
is flowing in the wind
like a beheaded flower. Her cast
glance seems to say: Never miss
the last day of summer. Never miss
the last day of summer! There will
be others.  You cannot dwell
in one season alone.
When he comes
do not ask to see his face, she says.
When he turns to see you again
one last time
remember this life
spent wandering in the shade.
Now. Go. Into the dark. Into
the light. Into the dark! Into
the light!
Eurydice In The Dark
As juxtaposed to Mark Strand's "Orpheus Alone." Class exercise. Really enjoyed the more concrete detail of his poem. As usual, those grand gesticulations, that infuriating ambiguity, the theme of absence, the talk of "the first Three Great Poems?" All of it: ugh. 
Everything is surrounded
by the sun but at
the same time clouds
close in
like flies
on honey.

The trees and the farmer
are so faceless and idyllic
with their backs turned to the
whole world
it seems they are
the only ones
here. The tree
seems more important than
the farmer, the farmer's
red shirt seems more important
than the farmer himself, the farmer
himself seems important, but only so. Look
how the ox ambles away into the darkest
corners of the painting. Look
how the sea is spreading out
onto the earth like blue ink. Look
at the dead in the wake
of a still tide, still
struggling to free themselves
from their tangled bodies.

Here, everything
is too blue, the sea
is too big, the ships
are bigger and more
important, it seems. And if
you look to the sails, the wind
blows only when they unfurl,
not through branches, not
on waves, or through
the clouds' darkening
curls. There are
cities with their ports
laid out on top
of ruined castles sinking
day by day
through the mud
of the ocean floor.

The shepherd
is staring off into the sky
as sheep stray close to
edge of the surf.

The sun is perpetually
sinking, building a castle
made of sand, a ship
so close to coast,
one leg, a rim
of foam, a boy
with no arms
to wave at anyone.
From Landscape With the Fall of Icarus. Class exercise.
Sorry about that, as
a cloud punishes the air
like a starling
with a wash of song.
Forgive me, these are
my first steps
into a world
without confusion,
without vagueness,
without such pretense as
the ambiguous modern
condition. A world made
not by man, not by God,
not by me. Thank heaven.
This network of veins,
this simplified form,
this grand fragmentation of root
and stem without resorting to
the ugly blade of separation or
detachment, this intrinsic needlework,
entirely your own.
A body like yours
not ruled by blood, brain, or
bone and its set calcification.
No, in you
the world, arising
without our laws to
harness it in some
pure illusion
or haunt it down
to a duller one.
I have to say
you surprised me.
I looked into the field book
and consulted the dictionary,
the encyclopedia,
the telephone book,
the classical history,
and the holy texts as well!
The whole kingdom,
phyllum, genus, species.
All unknown to me!
I cannot tell whether you
are perennial or annual, though
you have emerged
twice in the fields of my life
both times, against the grain
of seasons, blooming
in winter well as in
spring, irregular
-ly petalled, asymmetrical,
fat with love, strangely
radiant even among
foxgloves and the ribs
of wild iris. Brought forth
on the high winds following
a recent drowning of rain,
you descended
on unknown wings, so clear
-ly a newcomer to this world
I could not help but want
to know your name.
On Having Misidentified a Wildflower
The title comes from one of Richard Wilbur's short poems. Also, I don't like nature. Or walking in it. Or on it. Nature is kinda mosquito. 
after Stevie Smith, her haunting song, Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard her, this lady of bone
pressing her lips to the red, red boy.
I was putting on a dress and crying
tears, not blood but lipstick.

Poor girl, she ate up parlor tricks.
And now he's dead.
It must have been too much for the two,
I guess.

I lied, I liedliedlied. It was never enough.
(She ate his tricks and pressed her lips)
I was watching, jealous and tramp-like,
my tears, not blood, but lipstick.
Okay, so there's a contest going on at that my friend Josh is hosting. This is the third year he's done it and I can tell you from experience it's really fun and challenging. It's essentially a nine week long contest that spans the summer. There will be a prompt every week ranging mostly from prose, but sometimes requiring poetry or screenwriting. It's open call, although only ten lucky writers will get to participate, so make yourself a free figment account and check it out here. Anyone can join and submissions last until May 15th, 5/15. Contest starts Monday, June 2nd.

Here's the guidelines:

1.) Contestants must be American citizens (or currently living in the U.S.A) to be eligible. 
2.) Contestants must be 15 or older to be eligible. 
3.) Open call begins Tuesday, April 1st at midnight and will close on Thursday, May 15th at midnight. ALL eligible writers will be considered, but only 12 writers will be chosen to compete. ANGAVol. 3 begins Monday, June 2nd
4.) Contestants will be performing weekly challenges and must be positive they can actively participate for 9 weeks. 
5.) All are welcome to join the ANGA,Vol. 3 group as fans, but only contestants will be allowed to compete in the weekly challenges. 

Spectators are more than welcome.


TheGlassIris's Profile Picture
Andrew Liu
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Hi, I'm Andrew Liu. I'm 19, a student at East Los Angeles College and Pasadena City College, and I love to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles held in the Getty Villa. If I look bemused, it's because he doesn't have a dick. I've been writing since middle school and I started taking it seriously around senior year, so, sixteen or seventeen. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians, Fablehaven, that sort of stuff) 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. And I mostly write as a hobby.

I'm also an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. I'm a big poetry buff. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are pretty varied though: 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).

I swear I read and watch more than this, it's just I'm really picky and have strangely specific tastes. Ask me for writing critique and feedback. I'm more than happy to give advice.



Add a Comment:
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
akrasiel Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014   General Artist
Thank you so much for reading and favouriting my work. :huggle:
Ponix7 Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2014
I am amazed by the diligence and discipline you have for writing, including the sheer volume posted on DA.  It motivates me to do more, and I enjoy reading your work.
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Aw, thank you.
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2014
:wave: A random "hello", Andrew.
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014
Happy birthday!
TheGlassIris Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014
No problem!
iris2501 Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist

:iconrelievedplz::iconsaysplz: Ha, sorry for the delay, but I was out for a while and I just could not thank you.

:iconheehee-plz::iconsaysplz: Thank you so very much for the fav

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