Who's Who on dA: Issue 4

Hey everybody!

Medoriko here again with something I have been wanting to do for awhile.



I enjoy doing feature articles, but I have realized more and more that a lot of features people do (and I'm super guilty of this) involve people that are more known in the literature community here. Or, in my case, it's a feature of people I'm good buddies with. There's an incredible amount of talent hiding in the corners of dA, and I want to give some spotlight to those that haven't gotten the recognition they deserve. We have all been there, and you gotta start somewhere right? Sometimes that's the push we need when we're new to dA, and just getting started. This is also for deviants who aren't new, but may be under the radar a bit. Either way, this is a good way to get some glimpse into who's out there in this big world that is the lit community on deviantArt.



Thus the entire point of this feature article series I'd like to call: “Who's Who on dA”. It will be feature articles spotlighting some lesser known dA writers. Hopefully, this will serve to get some views/attention their way. Or, at the very least, make their day for a bit.

If you have any people in mind that you think should be featured in any of the Who's Who Issues, feel free to note me privately with their dA name, why you think they should be featured, and maybe some pieces you think need to be included.

Here's Issue 4:

LaBruyere

PenhallowCover to cover
Blood running between the lines,
And lies like pollen
Spread from life to love and back.
Brother, grant the love we lacked. Loved Deeper StillI have indeed loved deeper still
Before my mem'ry let you go,
And cast about for barren thrill.
I have indeed loved deeper still,
And I will love again. I will.
My calloused heart will overflow;
I have indeed loved deeper still
Before my mem'ry let you go.
Come back to me and force my hand--
I cannot cause myself to feel.
Your love my heart will not withstand;
Come back to me and force my hand.
Alas, you heed not my command.
Instead, you wish my soul to heal.
Come back to me and force my hand--
I cannot cause myself to feel.
This love steals slowly in the night--
I breathe the soft grace as I sink.
What must I do? How shall I fight?
This love steals slowly in the night.
I have indeed loved; you were right:
I built my shackles link by link.
This love steals slowly in the night--
I breathe the soft grace as I sink.  The Queen of ArtsI gave a sacrifice of skin and bones;
She slew the dragon fruit with orchid eyes
Once pasted 'gainst her skull in sky-green tones.
The hirsute holly held the best disguise.
Now round the garden goes our best intent.
Said four a.m., "the timorous must flee.
For this, the summer of our discontent
We must be brought to bare our hearts to thee."
The clock struck half past four and she is near,
Resplendent in her candled fairy home
Accepting homage for her fourteenth year
And casting minstrels out into the gloam.
O Queen of Arts, you bring this rhyme to close
With fourteen lines, a nightmare, and a rose. My Present LongingI longed for summer
Back in dusty rooms of woodsmoke
Reveling in cocoa, briefly,
But aching for days I remembered
As alive
And full of joys in cut grass
And watermelon rinds.
Summer evenings cooled to sultry theatres
For fireflies on a clothesline-curtain stage.
And my age
Was two and a hundred sixty
For all the breeze knew.
Skinned knees at ten
Sunburnt knees at twenty
And now, knowing that the summer evenings
Slip
From the clothesline into winter
I wish I'd had more snow cones
And sticky hands at midnight
Ere the crisp leaf pumpkin autumn sends it home.


Emily-Byrd

Foggy NightSnaking trails of mist
Cut my breath away;
Inhale the silent terror
Of a hundred memories;
Trees rattle with ice, unseen
Reaching in the shadowy curtain
To find me
To grip me
To hold me in this darkness
This shifting, sifting world of black.
Time stands still - 
Only the fog moves,
Creeps over my skin;
Cold seeps into my bones,
Calling to mind desolate moors,
Creatures of other worlds,
Lost children,
Ancient tales,
Tears
And loneliness.
Great, stretching, deepening, ghostly
Loneliness.  Any Good    It was a stormy day in the middle of a weary summer. Gray rain was smuding the windows of a certain darkened house. Robin sat in her living room, staring at shadows of droplets sinking over the walls.
    At the very same moment, her younger brother was signing twin adoption  papers in sunny California.
    Baby birds were nestling in a tree close by, children of a sparrow rescued last spring.
    A child in Haiti was still thrilling to the contents of a Christmas shoebox.
    A beloved bulldog was home with his family after days on the run.
    Hung on a sweet neighbor's mantle was a "thank you" card, bringing a smile whenever she dusted.
    And a midwestern tornado spared a brilliantly-designed bank building.
    Memories of supporting her brother through a dark depression, saving a sparrow, sending a shoebox, returning a lost dog, mailing a "thank you" note, and befriending a reclusive engineer My Artist    The first thing I ever saw was her thoughtful face, pondering over me. I didn't smile. I couldn't move. I barely had any life in me at all… I was so stagnant and flat. Yet somehow I was starting to live. I must have been very vivid in her brain. 
    The next time she drew me, I was in a much more dynamic pose. That was more like it. I could feel a personality shifting and taking form. I wondered who I was.
    My hair got longer on the next page - a bit more wavey - and my eyebrows got a teensy bit sassier. My eyes were the favorite, though. She spent so long on each one, getting them just right. How thankful I was that she always sketched them first; I got to watch her draw the rest of me. Her forehead wrinkled and nose flared when she was most concentrated. She would let out sighs and little gibberish noises with her lips whenever she erased part of me. But whenever something was right, like a special flare i Please Change BackI had learned to live with it, the rain.
It had become normal, accepted, expected
I was gasping with pain at first,
Every drop an acid sting,
But now it was a part of life.
But suddenly, thrillingly, surprisingly,
It changed to snow.
Every flake a new hope, cooling my old burns,
Wafting through the wind like precious dreams.
I never wanted it to end.
It was never supposed to end.
But it changed back to rain.


omnibusjeremius

i will find foreveri've been told that 
nothing is forever -
forever's only fantasy
but i will go and find forever
and i'll bring it back
for you and me Homelessi.
Concrete beds
Sleepless woe
Discomfort, unrest
Cardboard pillow
Empty bellies
Nutrient deficiency
Skin and bones
Crying pleas
Ragged shoes
Stained, torn shirt
Ripped pair of pants
All covered in dirt
Loneliness
Family separation
Begging pleas dismissed
Acute isolation
Poverty.
ii.
Beds and snuggies
Bed-time stories
Heated room
And slumberous glory
Refrigerators 
Pantries, snacks
Foolish dining -
Obesity's back
Closets and drawers
Clothing galore
"Nothing to wear"
We ask for more
Family visits
Christmas parties
Loving hugs
So warm and hearty
Luxury. Life HaikuThe secret to life -
But, hush, only you may know -
The secret is to Love is...That dusty, old board game on the highest shelf -
Impossible to reach until we are tall enough.
Or perhaps, until a step stool is used? (Alas, however, that is blind ambition!)
But once we are tall enough, and we grasp it,
We find that some parts are broken,
Some parts are missing,
And the instructions are nowhere to be found!
Yet,
We still play the game.


TheShanar

NeuronElectrically alive
lighting strikes,
charging the skip
of the synaptic gap.
Diffusion dance,
graded defiance
a  stimulus hiss
'till light
stops sparking. ConcentrationI lost my mind a while ago,
I wonder where it went.
It could be fishing in a stream
or camping in a tent.
It might be flying in the air
or floating in the sea,
and the only place it isn't
is in my head with me.:thumb442498081: Storm BrewersThe three old ones began to dance.  No longer could they creak in their rocking chairs, tatting rainbows and humming soft rains.  Their old bones whined, and they knew it was time to gather long bolts of wind and sing a storm into their cauldron (which is to say, the world).  
The three of them, old and wrinkled, began to stomp out a gentle rhythm and one began to chant.
Cauldron, simmer sun no more,
better things for you in store,
fill yourself with winded wrath!
Cloth yourself with lightning flash!
Each moved their mouth in unison, only one speaking.  They shared one voice between them.
Let no lightning strike or burn…
The second spoke, immediately contradicted her sister’s previous statement.  The first opened her mouth in a voiceless yowl as the second continued.
rather, let the ocean churn
toss the beings out as chaff,
spare no mortal further path!
A frenzy followed, their dance quickened with wild intentions.  The cauldron swirled with c


oviedomedina

Shift your cogsMachinery.
Ready yourself
for a tomorrow of hauling
-for you will be nothing more
than teethed wheels and wires
she will coolly keep her hands on the controls
so hope for no last minute blackfuses
or cableburnings
life´s drone. TheatreAnd to think
out of four invisible walls
Folks have managed
to weary down our reading eyes
with floods of thesis. The curtains can not restAs you meander
through the back stitches
of the high tables
-academics still assuming
every one plastered into the seats
is a wrighter of plays-
echoes of potential accidents
screech
in the night
-tires leave their fears and shivers
most blackbloodily-
they take seconds to reach my shivering window
-too late they arrive,
as the inane giggleshows
intrude from the neighbouring dormitore-
and sob their tragedy
augmented by the hauntings
of rains hours past.
The next week´s wheelings await none:
you hope the locks metalic
order will keep the talkdallying
away from your and your soldiering
thrugh this new years pensum
you hope thw window, with its pastel
eyelids sleeping the night
will relax and stretch purringly
what is left of your weekend
outside you must hear the hail
salute it
farewell -not!- the boredom
on the other side of your room
trust the window lulled
by the city´s bubbly speeches
of rain
coming from the night. AstronomyBehind the atmosphere
of a lidded window
another twinkling household
is a fading star
in the night before the lifetoil.


Give these guys some love and attention, will ya? They deserve it.

Till next week.