Coloured By Octarine Light
Started on Dodger the new novel by Sir Terry
Prachett, the magic of storytelling moving my
mind into a fantastic realm and I'm off - my
spirit riding the story in seething emotions
and feelings
Images conjured in lines of artifice varying in
degree, pedantic words put in the mouth of a
protagonist, no matter - it remains delightful,
the awareness that this story was woven by
a past master
Of social commentary, the author's spirit illu-
minating lines that would have fallen if uttered
by anybody else, my heart pliable in Pratchett's
hands, the novel coloured and shaped by the
octarine light
Shining bright after years of bringing the Disc-
world alive; following unnatural speeches my
eyes ride every line creating a musical tune
by rendering the emotional tones in the
musical score
Of the text - all other noise is intrusion, not
registered while taking in the book I hold In
my hands - dreaming within the London
of a Charles Dickens, presented within
the eldritch perspective
Of a masterful Pratchett…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
All The Emotion Evoked
Now where shall I take the high tide of emotion
seeing that I have finished reading the story of
Tiffany Aching - the book is too short; the great
promise of it beginning when she demanded a
full-scale hearing while every element seemed
to be against her - which made me shudder on
her behalf - turned benevolent universe MUCH
too soon and with the odds not stacked against
her victory was too easy and she was given all
help, suddenly she was such a sure-fire winner
riding the tide and I no longer identified with the
protagonist - my heroines always have to suffer
much longer with more challenges to overcome
I was ready to face a lot of pain - just to find the
ride too short, too few obstacles, the bride-to-be
was a special witch great at dealing with ghosts;
all misunderstanding solved too easily - I prefer
complications and intrigues for a sweet heroine
but Terry Pratchett spun a beautiful tale - to be
embroidered - until it contains all the pain I can
imagine - he remains my favourite author - all
the emotion evoked will be used to experience
and recreate fairytales old and new in my head
I Shall Wear Midnight - Terry Pratchett -
What a Wonderful Book!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Unseen Academicals- 22/11/09
Pratchett’s Unseen Academicals was a
joy from beginning to end, the author is
a prince among men
Ridiculed fashion items like six-inch
stiletto heels and all kinds of bling,
empty-headed models
Remunerated exorbitantly for glittering
while toiling labourers doing necessary
things are paid next-to-nothing
Pratchett’s depiction of the Discworld
is bathed in a golden light of happiness
everybody joyously engaged
In activities normally depicted as unmitigated
Misery; does Pratchett realize how much the
positive attitude of his main characters
Contrast with his cynical omnipresent narrator
perspective, does he see the juxtaposition
between two aspects
His protagonists acting with integrity and his blasé
narrative voice, the dualism must cause a war
in his mind – verily, I suspect
That is happening at present, while Pratchett is
telling a world-weary tale of human nature, his
characters are presenting a morality play
He cannot subdue them, cannot force decadence
on his characters, they are whiter than snow –
how much does this irk him?
I would love to know...
Terry Pratchett ‘Unseen Academicals’ Doubleday 2009
poem by Margaret Alice
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Magic On The Quiet
Charmed by the wonderful wit of Terry Pratchett
in Carpe Jugulum, sharing Agnes Nitt’s admiration
for the Right Reverend Mightily Oats’ kindness in
helping Granny Weatherwax under the ruse that
she was helping him and Granny’s grudging res-
pect for a priest of Om no longer burning witches,
not burning in holy fire himself meaning he is truly
an honest man and bringer of light to dark places
The ramifications of the situations which reveal the
true nature of the protagonists who face them, form
a string of magical events that glisten and shine in
my imagination just as they do in Indra’s heaven
where every pearl reflects all the other pearls
The logical consistent action of Pratchett’s main
characters forming a musical theme that plays
through all his books, carefully camouflaged from
the regard of the casual passer-by who does not
pick up the shining strands to follow them to their
harmonious conclusions
Led astray by the science of materialism used to
lull unobservant connoisseurs into believing that
empiricism forms the basis of Pratchett’s edifice –
And I shall leave it at that, delighting in magic
on the quiet…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Experience The Divine - Best Gift
Maria von Trapp complained
she couldn’t stop singing and
saying everything that comes
into her mind, in tribute to his
favourite flibbertigibbet
Pratchett invented the Chattering
Order of Saint Beryl Articulatus with
Sister Loquacious and Sister Voluble
who were free to be quiet for one hour
on Thursdays only
Pratchett’s causal narrative makes
redress for all past injustice, fills me
with inspiration to visualise the office
as a Chattering Convent and to project
the holiday resort
Which we are going to visit as a corner
of unsullied paradise and YOU as the
best gift the universe could ever provide,
thank you for every moment of time
you spend
It is the highest compliment and when you
polish uneven lines, you do the work of
angels and change my consciousness
into an experience of the Divine…
Good Omens – Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Corgi edition published 1991, pp 33,36,38, & 41
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Singing By Myself (Revised)
A gratifying result combining temperament
chart with personality type - seem to have
been choleric and sanguine before but the
experience of years abated it to tolerance -
a phlegmatic trait; and melancholic - arts
and music are my life
Not sanguine, a cheerful attitude at work
conceals emotions, no choleric desire to take
charge of others, what a relief, it is disastrous
not meeting expectations: at school I played
and sang for mom - singing in choirs is great,
but mingling with others is not;
I love songs but cannot perform on stage;
without mom I am an a-social melancholic;
remaining behind scenes, singing by myself
shocked by paraphrase ignoring rhythm and
sound, only meaning and grammar taken
into consideration -
Ironically music is the love of my life and not
my income source - while translating offers
musical lines of many languages, creating lyrics
for songs I can sing along, keeping my melodic
spirit alive until enjoying the raw delight of
musical poetry…
[ORIGINAL: ]
Combined temperament chart with personality
type, gratifying result - I seemed choleric and
sanguine before but after years of experience
prove to be tolerant - a phlegmatic trait; and
melancholic - arts and music my life
I'm not sanguine, a cheerful attitude at work
hide my emotion, no choleric desire to take
charge of others - what a relief, life seemed
a disaster not meeting expectations: at
school I played and sang for mom
Singing in choirs is great, but mingling with
others is not; I love songs but cannot per-
form on stage; without mom I am an a-
social melancholic; remaining behind
the scenes, singing by myself
Shocked by translation ignoring rhythm and
sound, only meaning and grammar taken
into account - why should music be the
love of my life - yet cannot be my
source of income - luckily
Translating offers the musical lines of many
languages, creating lyrics for songs, I can
sing along, keep my musical spirit alive
until enjoying the delight
of music in poetry…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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(Better) Done Than Said
(better) done than said
the sounds between the lines
of the words i speak
reminds me of the lines
i spoke in thought and trials
and the lines
within the sounds of spoken word
touched mine heart
mine dreadlocks started skanking in joy
of the music in mine thought
but til done, i thought
next to mine were time and rhythm
for less than never it were missing
the sense to do than say
and mine legs kept me in transit
mine hands touched to pick a way
whence my eyes long seen
besides, talk were amass
done; far less
than which that caught mine
til done, i do and did
done than said
the inner mine person done me
a thought to catch mine power
and grab to proceed a synergy of our
own belief to mine self and stronger
than the sounds behind the lines
of the words i speak
but from the deep lines
of the metaphor, line by talk
with mine hands holding that thought
to keep it moving and done
long before said, as done
opn01112012/0849
poem: (better) done than said
'roots of mine tree' book no.12 of 2012
november 2012
ntema's unique poetry
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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This Is The Story
(words & music by arnold - morrow - martin)
I play the song, it was our own
Your photographs by my side
I know I cant forget you
So I dont even try
The note you left is in my hand
I read again what you say
Youre sorry but you love him
And youve both gone away
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And its the story
That is breaking my heart
An open fire, our favorite chair
I get a book from the shelf
But the words I am reading
Could apply to myself
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And its the story
That is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Line
Sometimes a line comes along,
From nowhere, or
Anywhere, or
Everywhere;
It's just there
Going into your head,
Like the blueprint of your soul
Has been read.
And it is good -so good- to you.
You feel you must share it
With the entire world, through and through.
So you work and you try
To find a way
With wise words
This line to say;
Wrestle with your intellect
As you might,
Work on it
Day and night.
Still, the written words just are not there;
And, you begin to wonder does it matter?
Would anyone, anyhow truly care?
So, you put it away
In the darkness of the mind,
Out of touch
And out of time.
The moments and seasons
Drift ever along,
To here and to there
On and on.
As life has a way of pounding
And dragging with a mix of wonder and drear,
Day unto day
Year after year;
Season upon season...
Until, for some unseen reason
You one day come to realize
It's still there...
In your soul, somewhere.
That beautiful old verse
From way back when,
So you seek it out
Once again.
Ponder and ponder through the mind
Search and search, look and look
Until you find
The nearly forgotten words
Of this fantastic old line.
When once more thought
It still lays open the soul so bare,
And gives cause again to wonder
Now, would-could anyone care?
Yet, with age comes shifting perspective
Thereby giving cause to think:
Does it truly matter anymore?
For is that- was that ever-
What the line
Was given for?
Soon your spirit soars
Whistling, to yourself, the old familiar score,
A time... or two...
As here again it has its mystic effect upon you,
Its movement, its passion
Its wonderful sense of sweet satisfaction;
The places it takes you
In your heart and mind,
Way back and way forward
Throughout all time.
As if a precious gift
Given for none other,
Your spirit alone to uplift
Like the tender note of a fantastic old lover.
Therefore you become quite aware
Even if no one else ever cares,
The line was never meant for the world.
Rather, all along
It's meaning to be known,
Was always and only...
For you alone.
It was only with you
Who could truly for it care,
That God did so, the line
Desire to share.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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This Is The Story (Takes 1,2)
I play the song, it was our own
Your photograph's by my side
I know I can't forget you
So I don't even try
The note you left is in my hand
I read again what you say
You're sorry but you love him
And you've both gone away
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And it's the story
That is breaking my heart
An open fire, our favorite chair
I get a book from the shelf
But the words I am reading
Could apply to myself
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And it's the story
That is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Storyteller's Word
In a decent book, I can lose myself,
For, at least, a good couple of hours.
A well told story, for young or old,
My mind will quite hungrily devour.
I’ve always loved a real page turner:
A story, which, is totally compelling.
Sometimes, there’s a story, true or invented,
Which, simply, deserves, and needs telling.
Sometimes, a person in a book,
To me, can feel like a true friend;
You share their life and adventures,
And feel rather sad, when it all ends.
A story can stir up a mixture of emotions:
I’ve cried tears, and gasped with surprise.
I’ve found myself completely captivated,
As a story unfolds before my very eyes.
A good story, has the ability to transport you,
To different places, and to different times.
You just never know where you may end up,
When you sit and read those immortal lines.
Stories should never be kept locked away:
With others, they should be readily shared.
There is no other past-time, known to man,
With which, reading a book, can quite compare.
Whether a story is based on a person’s life,
Or whether, it has been quite purely invented,
A story can make such an impact upon you,
That, forever, in your memory, it is cemented.
I’ve always adored a really well written story,
Regardless of, by whom, or when, it was written.
Snuggled up, with a book held in your hands,
It is so easy, to become completely smitten.
A story can make you lose all track of time,
When, in a book, you are totally immersed.
I love reading a story, and really drinking it in;
For reading books, I’ve developed a real thirst.
There are many stories, the world over,
Which, are still waiting to be heard.
Nothing on earth, is quite so powerful,
As the power of the storyteller’s word.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Words
Someone and someone were down by the pond
Looking for something to plant in the lawn.
Out in the fields they were turning the soil
Im sitting here hoping this water will boil
When I look through the windows and out on the road
Theyre bringing me presents and saying hello.
Singing words, words between the lines of age.
Words, words between the lines of age.
If I was a junkman selling you cars,
Washing your windows and shining your stars,
Thinking your mind was my own in a dream
What would you wonder and how would it seem?
Living in castles a bit at a time
The king started laughing and talking in rhyme.
Singing words, words between the lines of age.
Words, words between the lines of age.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Library In You
The words that you speak.The wisdom you have inspired me. The stories you tell and the author in you comes out. Library In You
The parallel lines in you words the experience in the language the art of storytelling.Reception from people how these stories affect many lives.The library In You. Your literature speaks volumes to me.You are the simile and I; m the metaphore.The tone of beautiful words the elegance of rhythem in which you speak from. Listening brings many to high altitudes.The library In You
Grammar in how you use it.The ingredent to mothers cake the master in your own league.An idle mirror on how I can tell my story. Your flowetry with a pen and paper tells all issues of those in the ghetto. You are the symphony of art.
The mathematics of an artist and his brush.The fuel to the fire I ignite with inspiration. The mother speaks as the child listen.The library in You
To conquer all paths of storytelling to imply and relate with a pen and recongize these thoughts.
The pen writes the story but the mind conquers the thought.Words explains the love of literature.I accept the library in me
poem by Lucinda Bryson
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My Book Of LIfe With Marie..Seventeen Years!
As I Turn back the pages of time with my ageing shaking hands,
Every leaf I read is a beautiful story of a magical sparkling wonderland
Laughter tears joys and the secrets we shared, a story to be untold
The best read, so perfect with many a moments, unforgettable unfold
The lovely days I recall brings many a tears of joy I just couldn’t hide
Smiling away the deepest darkest hours making it, a so joyous ride
The pleasant laughter, a gentle breeze, tenderly touching my weary heart.
An inner strength abundance of love, devotion, a miraculous work of art
A heart so dear, hands so gentle, a voice so musical, easing my hurting ears
Peace contentment the book of joy called ‘Marie and I, The Seventeen Years! ! !
with tnx to my adorable Marie..the best wherever you go in your life's journey..May you have a story book of memories filled with love and dignity...lv happy years to floow strating from this day..22nd sept 2011
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Fantasy is an exercise bicycle for the mind. It might not take you anywhere, but it tones up the muscles that can. Of course, I could be wrong.
quote by Terry Pratchett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Engraved
Every afternoon into the crocodile lagoon
a sun-kissed scene, gilded trees, floating,
rekindling my dreams, paying homage to
sacred memories, renewing my promise
forever to cherish one special phrase
Wherever I may be, wherever I may go,
always keep the holy words as a chem
in my head, never reveal to anyone on
earth, safe against change, treasured
in the sweetest depths of my heart
Never to share with anyone alive, in-
creasing its value a hundredfold, finding
my strength in one beautiful - one shining
line - though the source is lost; I do not
care where it went or why it has left
The origin does not count - I made it mine
my shining talisman, engraved on my heart
sealed in my soul, special moments to take
into infinity, a magic event living in my mind
forever and ever…
Chem: Holy words that make a Golem work –
See Terry Pratchett – “Feet of Clay”
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Vivaldi
Being forced to listen to Vivaldi by
a compilation of classical music, his
musical themes & unwavering beat,
his notes like stiff-necked soldiers
marching on with robotlike idiocy
drive me insane
Awakening memories of ALL things that
irked me recently, the contrast between
the delight reading Pratchett and being
enraged by Vivaldi-effigies led to the
suspicion there is a poem on anger
waiting in the wings
Meantime, these cold notes on the deficiency
of three-dimensional holographic images as
simile of reality made me reflect on life’s
shortcomings - but Men At Arms is lying
next to me, their mischievous irrational
levity is waiting
To grab me again and whisk me away from
inadequate, imperfect and painful reality –
up to the heights of cloud nine…
“Men At Arms” – Terry Pratchett, Corgi edition
published 1994
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Children of the Midwest Sun
We are the children of the Midwest sun:
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
'Come along, ' sang Empedocles,450 BCE,
'and I'll tell you a tale of the Sun's nativity:
how the land, and rapid air,
damp vapors and the sea,
that bind Titan's circle around the earth,
all spring from the same identity.'
For the great Sun God, the Egyptian Ra,
lordly Mithras of the Persians,
Greek Apollo bright-orbed,
the majestic Incan Sun, Druidic Stonehenge Sun,
the Chinese, the Indian, and Australian Sun
are all One...
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
We are the children of the Midwest Sun:
the buzzing insects, beasts and birds,
and creatures that ride the waves in herds,
down the Mississippi basin and out to the world.
This phoenix-like maelstrom earth
in truth is but a shard of ashes and vapor,
for eons in labor,
to which the Midwest Sun gave birth.
We are the children of the Midwest Sun:
its light has weight, measured musical tones.
poem by Jay Mandeville
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A Failing Lonely Music
Thoughts that take me back, a texture, in perfect tune with every note
A grand piano so new, the keys ivory white, flawless with many a devote
Beauteous to life to play a melody designed, lively and sweet to many ears
The musical rhythm in harmony, bringing a serenity to the atmosphere.
Thumping the many hours, minutes, that so majestically then displayed.
Seen now with lines drawn around the face, many a hardships detailed.
Gone with the years, now wasted, distorted, dumb and left in sheer daze
Alone with the four walls in a corner, a laptop, begins a new phase
The silvery streaks shining through the once so ebony black hair
The touch of that mastery hand slips away with lesser love and care
the joyous glow, the musical softness, now faces just an empty smile
A burden hard to bear, and no longer a road that seems worthwhile
Like the dusty old piano abandoned and brings no comfort to the air
Withering hands, elegance shrinks, a coldness, with feelings, despair? ?
The worthy of a soul with the creeping of old age, the body a creaking
Concern cease, just memories of days, once kept a world a glowing! ! !
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Story Of Opinions
A story so strange and disturbing that it writes itself
Surely these actions are not good for ones mental health
As dark as the day yet twisted in the hands of a pen
A story that has not yet fallen to the mind of men
A title that holds so much more honour than the object
The words that mark the page are nothing but a prospect
Of a decision or miscalculation that causes such deep regret
That neither king nor tyrant shall ever try to forget
Engraved on the face of the earth, buried in the heart
Burnt in the mind and sleeping in the soul, there is the start
Of a tale from so many different angles and opinions
Mourned by the victim or retold by the loyal minion
The ink that taints the page slowly swallows the truth
‘Unbiased' yet moulded to teach today's youth
The story clear as water yet disturbed by the waves
Propaganda gives the public the words they crave
So maybe it is true that one should read between the lines
Lessons have taught that words are twisted with the times
Whether for added affect, sympathy or to remain a mystery
That is the truth of my story, their story, her story, History.
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Emotional Upheaval
Only Terry Pratchett can be forgiven for irreverently sending
an unrefined Sam Vines into the pristine company of Pride
and Prejuduce - calling this classic a silly romance
Vimes launches into a diatribe against the stifling gentility that
held rich people enthralled within a useless existence, tells
author Jane Austen to write about
Corpses, murder and war – a cross between Mickey Spillane
and Margaret Mitchell; I love his advice about earning one’s
own keep leading to self-esteem
Enjoy the psychological tension Austen described –without
much action she creates more excitement and emotional
upheaval than Mike Hammer and
Scarlett O’Hara combined – only Wuthering Heights and
Jane Eyre can rival Jane Austen in making me
experience hallucinations!
Snuff – Terry Pratchett; Doubleday 2011
pp 69-72
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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