delta d(x) = why?

It’s been a bit of a difficult summer, trying to find motivation. Inspiration – now that was plentiful; in such weather nearly every thought lends itself to another, and that to yet more. Thoughts are unconfined, undetained, unbound by conventions and such due to the carefree nature of the season itself. I suppose I’m babbling incoherently a little here; ah well, can’t be helped. Pretty much just speed-read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice the last three days, so bear with me if the phrasing seems a little off.

Right, back to the topic at hand. Photography (www.deltay.deviantart.com) wasn’t really the issue – saw some rather remarkable sights, and was fortunate enough to capture a mere fragment of their beauty by camera – but writing! I’ve been trying to get back into it for some time now, in terms of major prose (especially after the failure that was last year’s NaNoWriMo; nor do I forsee this year’s being much better) and … well, ideas have been plentiful, but motivation seems to strike at the oddest hours, at which time there is barely more to be done than a few short blurbs.

Usually, I’m somewhat paranoid about putting up any original writing on the web, but in this case I’ll make an exception. ‘Twas written for a contest on dA where a poem’s to be written based on a famous painting, and as [the text] has already been posted on dA, it’s pretty well protected by copyright already, so I figured why not? That and the fact that dA just about slaughtered the formatting. Anyway, it was really hastily written, so concrit would be appreciated.

shrouded in solitude and silence       the noise is deafening.

           legs crossed, one sinewy prominent limb over the over

Bones            pushing. shoving, stretching, straining         

               against toes           ankles            knees.

scantily clad, threadbare, holed                                       Thin.

Elongated limbs, criss-crossed by spider webs

                                          by feathery veins.                 Protruding.

Shoulder exposed to the chill

                                the breeze, the air, the vapour of

                     barely sustained                                         Life.

           Shoulders slope into neck, deeply bent

              in thought, in concentration, in contemplation:

Thinking.       Listening.       Hearing.

           the Music.

           the Language.

           the Noise.                                      The Silence.

The little white lies coming, charging, beating

                                              From the instrument

                                propped between his wrinkled, threadbare sheathed thighs.

Fingers fly, flow, flounce over strings

                     plucking, pushing, touching.                       Changing.

           Sounds! Oh such sounds…

                                Ethereal         but a lie.

                                Majestic         but out of tune.

                                Cliché                                            but true.

                     I hear,                                 I listen.

to the little lies

            I see, but I don’t understand

                 the language, the words, the meaning                     of

The Old Guitarist.

(c) 2008 deltay