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Leon Fleming

Just a note here:

These friends of cherished cherry trees

Anyone like cherry pie?


You mean irony?  Because I love irony.  But never mind if you meant satire.

Yes! Them both; I use irony all the time. Though I think my older sister is getting annoyed…*gollum grin*

If it didn’t make sense, then that’s great – because then it would make you read it a second time and get it firmly planted within your brain, savvy? Yes, that may be the point. Or not…I didn’t embark to complete this goal. But still, it works. As evidence above is shown.

Brutality is at most times the source of a fruitful poem. (There’s a patent on this!) Nay, I am merely jesting.

You know, I always chuckle inwardly (and most times outwardly) when people decipher things from within my poetry that I myself had not an inkling of an intention of adding for the meaning that it proclaimed. Often times I thank them and go by the old writer’s rule “If you made a mistake (or added something unintentionally that made the piece work all the more) just pretend that you did said article on purpose.” I love this rule and all the things implied within. Unfortunately, here, when paralleling the mine and minds, I did not originally intend this to be relevant to the poem as a whole. But looking back I now realize that, yes, indeed it has. Thank you for your consideration upon this topic, K. I shall not say, though, that I did not unintentionally write this (you know, sometimes I confuse myself when I’m writing). It all fitted when the writing took place, and this only on a whim of mine.

There is much within this world to be found, but nothing will be compared when the findings of God will be at hand. (no patent here; quote away) XXXDDD!!! Sorry, just kidding. My character comes into this…too much.

Of the vast assorted articles: this may be anything what you wish it to be. That is what I wish readers would do with my poetry. Take it and let your mind be carried away into the land of Nod and Imaginatia. (One of my favourites, that: The Land of Nod -[Robert Louis Stevenson]). My Mother read it to me when I was just a wee lad . . . she read me lots of poetry. Maybe that’s what got me into poetry, I don’t know. She read things of Wordsworth, Frost, Blake, Dickinson, Carroll, and others of that fairy land type. She still does it today with my younger siblings…I won’t say I don’t walk in occasionally and listen. She’s probably memorized them by now.

But really: the vast assorted articles – quite frequently in my poetry each line builds off the one before it. It is how I let my imagination drift. I suppose many people do this too.

I walked into the mine and found many articles of vast amounts. Both of wisdom and interest.

(Pardon; little interlude): Do not let your mind dwell on things of depressing sorts…like how you, as a junior, failed a problem on a test because of a blond moment: you said that 7 times 7 = 14. She’s kicking herself even now (my sister).

I’m still not sure what you meant by this: “I find a rag of watered well. / I take it up and grip it firm / The ends don’t meet, they leave the worm.

By this I meant that as I took up the rag of wisdoms and interests, there was no end to its contents. It kept spilling forth its interesting things and more came of it that was before. I think the most complicated of this would be that last line mentioned, “The ends don’t meet, they leave the worm.” Its meaning now is somewhat unclear to me now, but I think I can decipher it. My intentions then were clearly in my head. The ends won’t meet because it is so thick with “water”. I will never be able to wrap my mind around the overall picture of Story Embers, even though I may seem to have the ability. They leave the worm. The ends of this “water-filled towel” will never meet and so they end as worms do when they lie dead in the puddle. The ends of this towel give up ever trying to wrap around and tie themselves together. This towel is partly my mind and partly SE. It is SE in the way, as shown above, of how much there is to be found here. It is my brain in the way that I am trying (in the poem) to encompass my mind around the enormity of SE but to no avail. The ends will never meet to comprehend. They will leave the thought of meeting as dead worms in puddles do to life.

It is an obscure metaphor, I know, but it seems fitting, in a way. The audience mayn’t understand but then, they can ask to know and knock to be let it. Or of other matters, the knowledge they seek to gain will run away with them on a rampant horse throughout the hills and dales of this world of Imaginatia…but never will it leave and always will it stay with the same meaning as before.

  • This reply was modified 1 year, 10 months ago by Leon Fleming.
  • This reply was modified 1 year, 10 months ago by Leon Fleming.

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