About Eric Keegan:
To check out his books click the links
About Eric Keegan:
To check out his books click the links
The same routine
Nine to five
Working like robots
Without looking up
Never once looking out of the window
Collecting material items
Never asking why
Never thinking what more is out there
————————————————————————————————————————-
Inspired by The Little Prince.
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Anger
Frustration
Pain
On one side
Relief
Happiness
Guilt
On the other.
————————————————————————————————————————-
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Crimson embers of fire crackle,
Beneath the pale moon light.
The stars they twinkle like tiny freckles,
Upon the face of the night.
The sun awakens, from its slumbers,
Naked vegetation shivers with delight.
For they are scarce, they’re few in number,
Desperate for the light.
The season sets a spell of slumber,
Upon the many lives,
Of plants and animals growing fonder,
To sleeping day and night.
This too shall pass,
It just takes might,
Time will change,
The clock will strike.
A day will come,
Where we can surrender the fight,
Of surviving these testing hardships,
But until then. Goodnight.
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Life is so short it’s important to live it to the fullest!
So Much Undone
So short a time to get everything done.
So much undone.
No matter how hard we try
There’s always more.
We leave it unseen,
Unfinished and unknown.
Life is so frustrating.
Even the things we tasted
Will be forgotten.
It is so utterly
Pointlessly crucial.
Could it be that
To know one thing
Is to know it all?
And could that
Be enough?
To not know anything
Is the greatest sin.
An unforgiveable waste
Of the most precious
Thing of all –
A glimpse of infinity.
Opher 29.11.2018
Life is so full and passes so quickly. There is always so much more to do, see and experience. It is never enough.
Yet to experience it is what life is about; to know it is there and to relish it with all your heart.
Life rages.
We have to do, be and life madly. To fill the…
View original post 3 more words
By Stefan
Poetry is not a matter of feelings, it is a matter of language. It is a language which creates
feelings.
Umberto Eco
There are many quotes from remarkable writers and philosophers that tackle the subject of
poetry ever since the time immemorial. A significant number of these attempts can actually be
considered poetry themselves, just for offering innovative ideas dressed in a fine linguistic attire.
What is interesting about the Eco’s statement above, however, is that it has honestly made us
believe that he managed to grasp the integral sense of poetry as a whole and formulate it in no
more than two short sentences. Consequently, we have decided to use it as a starting point for
answering the question whether poetry still connects people in the 21st century and if it does –
can it be characterized as a successful form of communication? Believe it or not, it’s more
complex than it seems at first sight.
Who are the 21st century’s sentries exactly?
Let’s start with the (poetry’s) recipients first. The people of the 21st century can be best depicted
as lonely cowboys and cowgirls, desperately roaming the land, alienated from everyone,
including themselves, yet secretly hoping to come across a tall and dark stranger, someone who
will understand their estrangement without a word; someone willing to share with them that tacit
feeling of theirs, and perhaps offer a way out. On the other hand, this hope for dissolution rests
shy and is basically buried deep inside a huge load of personal insecurities, stress, and anxiety.
Still, we have to return to Eco once more in order to try to set out the two aspects that appear to
be prevalent in the most famous modern Italian writer’s interpretation of poetry’s main purpose (
in our modest opinion, of course):
– Poetry is not a matter of feelings, but a matter of language – meaning that he denies the
creative, often chaotic genius impulse as such and thus puts the equation sign between
the poetry and possession of superior language skills
And secondly:
– Poetry understands an intelligent and intuitive use of language that is bound to cause
emotions – meaning that a true poet has to be fully capable of enticing a feeling that
existed in a recipient all along but they somehow forgot it’s there already. And this has to
be similar to waking up from a pleasant slumber, so to speak.
Now, if we go back once again to our cowboys and cowgirls metaphor, we can finally call into
question the overall position of the poetry as a form of connecting people in the 21st century.
We’ll even allow ourselves a luxury of expressing our own concerns regarding the overuse of
various social networks, texting, and sexting in addition to an omnipresent need for short,
artificial bits of non-relevant content that every individual is exposed to on a daily basis.
Moreover, we can’t help but notice these abhorrent communication forms appear to be
uninvited, yet equal components of our rather chaotic universe that leaves no room for more
sophisticated forms of exchanging information, to our sheer disappointment.
Poetry – a Court Lady on a Spaceship
All in all, it seems that Erato is a long way from home, perfectly lost in a funereal future. Poetry
requires patience; fathoming art and sharing ideas categorically requires it. And somehow, it
seems that our fuse is shorter than ever. According to some studies, the world’s IQ has grown
for 20 points compared to 1950s. On the other hand, understanding poetry has nothing to do
with intelligence; it’s about being intuitive and sensitive to the hidden beauty, which is often
painted by the finest brush that is made solely of words. Poetry is begging us to reconnect with
ourselves first and then reach out to others. And in the end, the most tragic about it is that it
could really offer a lot – should we decide to let her in.
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I’ve been in my own world or
Maybe I’m just living in my own nightmare
I feel paranoid
I feel different
It’s a feeling I can’t explain
Each day here has been really
Different from the others
Each day I hope maybe
Tomorrow things will get better
Maybe it won’t
I’ll just have to wait
For the time when none
Of this will matter anymore
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There is a place,
Where the moon
Isn’t afraid to say
How much it loves the stars
There is a place,
Made of glass
So aesthetic yet so fragile,
A promise which was meant to last forever
Didn’t matter anymore
And suddenly
And these pieces start to scream in dark
They scream for someone to hear them
To fix them back
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*Skip ahead for the English and Spanish version*
Du bist meine Lieblingsmensch
Und
Ich bin deine Lieblingsmensch
Aber
Nur in meinen Träumen
This poem was inspired by:
English Translation For The Poem:
You are my favourite person
And
I am your favourite person
But
Only in my dreams
Spanish Version Translated By Crosscountrylifeblog:
Sorry for any mistakes in the German version but I’m still learning and not fully fluent yet!
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