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Portrait Paradelle (Other) by Enkidu Our chances are flecks of paint,
Our chances are flecks of paint,
In dueling drips of bleeding angst,
In dueling drips of bleeding angst.
Flecks are our chances of bleeding,
Dueling angst in drips of paint.
Mighty the triumph of rage's hands,
Mighty the triumph of rage's hands,
Destroyed what crafty hearts hath built,
Destroyed what crafty hearts hath built.
The hearts of rage's crafty triumph,
Hath built what destroyed mighty hands.
I make each damning spark deliver,
I make each damning spark deliver.
What grows âround the dimming light,
What grows âround the dimming light.
The spark dimming grows damning light
Each make âround what I deliver.
Of the damning drips of triumph,
Mighty chances spark in our hands,
Rageâs crafty, dimming flecks are destroyed.
Of each dueling light what grows,
I make hearts âround bleeding paint,
Deliver what the angst hath built.
Up the ladder:
without you
Down the ladder:
One Moment in Time
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.3333335
Posted: April 27, 2006 6:56 PM PDT; Last modified: April 27, 2006 6:56 PM PDTWeighted score: 5.3585887 Overall Rank: 3327 Comments:
You have no grasp on human existence. I cannot even venture to guess what childhood atrocities must have been inflicited on you to make you want to write such an empty and uninspired piece of shit as this. You're just one more sorry ass strutting around in this pitiful sanctuary for self-important asses. This drivel lacks all relevancy. Is this what you sit around pondering about? Is this the most intriguing most profound most soulful experience you can write about? What the fuck, are you some kind of horrible mutant? Try 'writing' something pertinent, germane, material, apropos to the soul and its struggle. It's tragic that such a bunch of heartless pukes have turned a once stimulating arena of thought into a incestuious hotbed of superfluous and inferior banter. The fact that some idiots feel it neccessary, let alone plausible, to leave comments on such atrocities is only more proof that you've all completely lost connection with the drama of human existence. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Get a life. A real one consisting of love and loss, pain and exrutiating ecxtasy, the awareness of our absurd and fleeting existence. You're all stuck in a boring putrid land of make believe. Fucking losers.
Quite frankly this is astonishing. I haven't come across paradelles before, and although I now want to write one, to emulate this is a hugely intimidating task. This would be a solid ten but for two points:
1) the end of stanza three is slightly off and 2) 'light what grows' isn't right. If those could be fixed I would gladly give this a ten. Let this not detract, however, from a magnificent effort.
I have neither the patiance or talent to even attempt to try and write in this form. Kudos to one who can.
How lovely! And how hard it must have been to write. This is the first paradelle I've read. I'm glad it was a good one.
I agree about the 3rd line from the end, though. 'light what grows' is awkward, so I made a valiant effort to find an alternative. It was a bitch. I came up with, 'Of each dueling spark in light, I make hearts âround bleeding paint, Deliver what the angst hath built.' It might fit, because in the original, the light grows. Here, it sparks into light. However, this is purely your decision. Have I said what a terrific piece this is already? 191 view(s)
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âThe paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in love poetry of the eleventh century,â says Billy Collins. âItâs a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, and the third and fourth lines, of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. The final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words.â Let the others figure it out.