Meanwhile In Wonderland...

Discussion in 'SHOWCASING' started by Literary_Dreamer, Oct 10, 2013.

  1. A/N: I am not much of a poet, admittedly. I prefer to play with prose. However, I had to write a poem for my creative writing class and I rather liked how it turned out. When I got it back, it came with a suggestion to play with the line breaks. I did but I can't decide which version I like better, so I thought I might post it here and see what the good people of Iwaku have to say about it. ^.^

    Version #1:

    Meanwhile in Wonderland​

    Two faces in a mirror.
    One, blank and dull, the other
    vivaciously full of life.
    The first, with hair clipped short,
    suit neatly ironed,
    speaking in typewriter tone.
    The second, long skeins of
    flowing curls, swathed in soft
    hippie clothes with sandals,
    mumbling and crying in
    all those fabled foreign tongues.

    They stare into each others’
    eyes, between the lucid glass.
    Not understanding, never
    understanding another.
    Lost within the looking glass.

    The first, called Cadence,
    is always on time and always
    prepared with just the right words.
    They are bone dry and dead
    like King Tut’s tomb or queenly
    toiletries from Lizzie One.
    She doesn’t care, she shouldn’t.
    The content is important
    but the vehicle may rot.
    She is eloquent like a
    Victorian tea party
    and just as deadly prudish.

    The second names herself Eden.
    She flies freely from restraint,
    and sings with words of joyous
    hyperbole though she be late.
    She gathers fine words like fruit
    but has trouble making a tart.
    She dreams of death like a phoenix
    already in flame, but she
    speaks of vivacious life lived
    solely within the mind.

    The two are in conflict.
    Always fighting, never won.
    Always separate, never whole.
    Never reconciled, never peace.
    They cannot see, will not see
    truth and lies undistinguished,
    love and hate but passion alone.
    One shall conquer; one shall lose.
    But where the advantage?

    A third sits, watching there.
    Nameless one and soulless shell,
    softly waiting, softly watching.
    She judges, emotionless,
    the war raging on and on.
    She will side with the winner
    only once they have won.
    Until then, indifferent,
    impartial observer.

    Eden starves, slowly, surely,
    betrayed by her own weakness.
    No use, all rules…again.
    Cadence thrives on structure.
    Scaffolds rise, scaffolds fall,
    evil structures of death
    or life but death to Eden.

    Death to Eden! Long live the
    Cadence. Long life to the
    typewriter. The instrument,
    not violin or cello,
    but voice to our queen. Death
    to the phoenix, life to the
    scorpion, Scorpio,
    in the hollow desert sun.

    Farewell to green, farewell
    to verdancy, farewell to all
    soft, living life replaced
    by black, by white, by grey
    in between the cracks in the mask.
    Nothing is perfect but
    some things are close enough
    and some things are dead, dry, lost:
    gone, gone forevermore,
    never to return. I think
    I will just go back to bed.



    Version #2:
    Meanwhile in Wonderland​

    Two faces in a mirror.
    One, blank and dull,
    the other vivaciously full of life.
    The first, with hair clipped short,
    suit neatly ironed,
    speaking in typewriter tone.
    The second, long skeins of flowing curls,
    swathed in soft hippie clothes with sandals,
    mumbling and crying in all those
    fabled foreign tongues.

    They stare into each others’
    eyes, between the lucid glass.
    Not understanding,
    never understanding another.
    Lost within the looking glass.

    The first, called Cadence,
    is always on time and always
    prepared with just the right words.
    They are bone dry and dead
    like King Tut’s tomb or
    queenly toiletries from Lizzie One.
    She doesn’t care, she shouldn’t.
    The content is important but
    the vehicle may rot.
    She is eloquent like a Victorian tea party
    and just as deadly prudish.

    The second names herself Eden.
    She flies freely from restraint, and sings
    with words of joyous hyperbole
    though she be late.
    She gathers fine words like fruit
    but has trouble making a tart. She dreams
    of death like a phoenix
    already in flame,
    but she speaks of vivacious life lived
    solely within the mind.

    The two are in conflict.
    Always fighting, never won.
    Always separate, never whole.
    Never reconciled, never peace.
    They cannot see, will not see
    truth and lies undistinguished,
    love and hate but passion alone.
    One shall conquer; one shall lose.
    But where the advantage?

    A third sits, watching there.
    Nameless one and soulless shell,
    softly waiting, softly watching.
    She judges, emotionless,
    the war raging on and on.
    She will side with the winner
    only once they have won.
    Until then, indifferent, impartial observer.

    Eden starves, slowly, surely,
    betrayed by her own weakness.
    No use, all rules…again.
    Cadence thrives on structure.
    Scaffolds rise, scaffolds fall,
    evil structures of death or life
    but death to Eden.

    Death to Eden!
    Long live the Cadence.
    Long life to the typewriter.
    The instrument,
    not violin or cello,
    but voice to our queen.
    Death to the phoenix,
    life to the scorpion, Scorpio,
    in the hollow desert sun.

    Farewell to green,
    farewell to verdancy,
    farewell to all soft, living life
    replaced by black, by white,
    by grey in between the cracks in the mask.
    Nothing is perfect
    but some things are close enough
    and some things are dead, dry, lost:
    gone, gone forevermore,
    never to return.

    I think
    I will
    just go
    back to bed.