Tag Archives: Star

The Wonder in Astronomy

Devin Stevens Presents Literature

“There, totally immersed in a bath of pure ethereal colour and of unrelenting though unwounding brightness, stretched his full length and with eyes half closed in the strange chariot that bore them, faintly quivering, through depth after depth of tranquility far above the reach of night, he felt his body and mind daily rubbed and scoured and filled with new vitality. Weston, in one of his brief, reluctant answers, admitted a scientific basis for these sensations: they were receiving, he said, many rays that never penetrated the terrestrial atmosphere.

But Ransom, as time wore on, became aware of another and more spiritual cause for his progressive lightening and exultation of heart. A nightmare, long engendered in the modern mind by the mythology that follows in the wake of science, was falling off him. He had read of ‘Space’: at the back of his thinking for years had lurked the dismal…

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“Trouble in the Mushroom Kingdom”

Vex not Thou the Poet's Mind

It is easy to fade in the wall,
Because my huge head,
A round white ball with red spots,
Thinks over and over and over
About how troubled the world is,
How King Bowser reigns with fiery flame.

Yet how sweet it is to see others move
Freely though the castle,
Taking risks and searching for stars.
When a man is shut in a dead town,
His head reeling in years of fear and failure,
How wonderful, how encouraging
the sudden leap of faith,
The yells of laughter:
‘Ya! Woohoo! Yipppeeeeee!’

Though my best speech is in text boxes,
I have often wished I could give you more
Than just advice on the stage;
I wish I could give you free stars,
And make your life easier.

Please forgive me for the times
When I exploded like a Bomb-omb
Or suddenly crashed on you like a Whomp.
My oversized head…

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“When the Poet is Dead”

Vex not Thou the Poet's Mind

When the poet is dead

stars will be burning gases

and not homeward diamonds.

When the poet is dead

wonder will wilt into facts

and the facts refuse to blossom wonder.

When the poet is dead

the glittering princess at the ball

weeps after midnight in her ragged, real clothes.

When the poet is dead

the plain, convicting blade has

impaled the lying heart, despite its rosy intentions.

When the poet is dead,

entombed in truth

and buried in reality,

instead of his sensory, invisible wind

blowing lovely, changing letters in time,

only barcode numbers cover his forehead,

only logic, and no rhyme.

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The world is a vampire…nope, maybe it’s just me…

The daily rising of the sun, from the dark, comfortable, peaceful, imaginative, starlit canvas, to the hot, bright, blinding, loud, color-blurred, burning “daytime” is enough to make one go mad…

If the sun didn’t come up every day, but maybe once a week, I think I could tolerate it more…

Excerpts from “Dark”.

Gay stuff.