Guest Writer: Evelyn L. (AKA EAL) and Her Odd Ramblings

Welcome once again to Illiterations' guest writer series! (I got a clap track after the last episode. If you listen really hard, you can hear it playing from where I live).

Today's feature is the ever-lovely, young, brilliant, amazing--ahem. Sorry. I could go on for ages about her, and I certainly don't want to bore anyone while I go on about this lovely lady. Of Assembling Imaginations, this is Evelyn L. (also known as EAL).

Not only does Evelyn write poetry; she also draws! (It's freaky. We're, like, twins or something...) I am an avid follower of her blog, not only because of her poetry, but also because I keep hoping to catch a glimpse of her mysterious Utopia Project. All I know (so far) is that it involves Europe, fighting, magic, and three years' worth of writing. Naturally, I'm a little curious.

I was also amazed to discover that she's even younger than I am! Just goes to show that talent and good writing can come from anywhere. c:

About herself, Evelyn says:

EAL, who was born in Illinois but raised in Norcal, will no longer be speaking about herself in third person.  I draw and play instruments, but writing is my main method of being creative.  Currently, I’m fighting my way through revisions of my finished story Utopia Project, with some short stories, poems, and possible longer works on the side.  I’m inspired by a lot of things: namely, books, landscapes, architecture, the ocean, and the odd ramblings of my brain.

So, without further ado, here is an odd rambling from the brain of Evelyn L.!

Blue-Eyes
Your eyes are stars, supernovae
But like black holes they pull me in

And implosions happen when I see you
Which is good because explosions

Are messy like finger-paint
And if I were five

I would choose my bluest crayon
To draw your eyes

Except they would be too round
And I would think of Neptune

Discovered by calculations
Existing as speculation before being found

A Roman god, a knockoff Poseidon
But that just isn’t you

Tell me what you mean
Tell me who you are

And, actually, I don’t even know
What kind of blue your eyes are

Blue like ocean under sun or
Blue like blood under skin

Because I keep forgetting
Even when I remember to look

For the black hole swallows even light
And under those bright supernovae

Color doesn’t really matter
Does it, blue-eyes?

This is Renee Montero from my plotless story which currently has the working title GW.  She's a little bit evil.

Like what you've seen? Read more at assemblingimaginations.blogspot.com!

Do you compose poetry, write prose, make art, or take photographs? Then you deserve to be recognized! Find out how!

Guest Writer: A Glimpse into the Soul of Kevin Routh

Welcome, welcome everyone, to Illiterations' very first guest writer! (If I had a clapping track, I'd play it here. You can applaud now as you read this if you feel so inclined).

Today's feature is the brilliant Kevin Routh, a father of 3 who lives outside of St. Louis, Missouri. He has been writing poetry for many years and has only recently begun to share his writings with others through his blog, Shards: The Poetry of Kevin Routh.

I was personally very impressed with all or Mr. Routh's poetry, as well as with his prose. Each piece is completely different, yet all have the same, unique style. My personal favorites are "Connor" and "Plastic People." These two poems, as well as the two featured here, reflect a critical observer of society, a bit of a jokester, and a loving man and father.

About his poetry, Kevin says:

"I strive to connect to human emotions and the human condition through my poetry. Some of my poems are happy, some angry and some are sad - but all of them are honest. They are all small glimpses into my soul."

Without further ado, I present to you "Memories" and "Poetry Is..." (and commentary on aforementioned poems) by Kevin Routh.

This is probably the hardest poem I ever wrote. I’m never ever quite sure what’s going to happen when I go back through my life and start poking and prodding at old scars. Even though it was painful, I really like how this piece turned out.

Memories 

little boy
5 or 6 maybe
trust me
(he whispers)
i love you
(he lies)
the house is filthy and dark
(like him)
little boy
concentrates on a cockroach
skittering back and forth across the floor
(instead of the pain)
the rancid breath
(cigarettes and gum disease)
the violence
followed by tears
(and apologies)
(and threats)
little boy
closing memories
(and shame)
behind locked doors

I took a literature class once and the professor, a tall, lanky (stork-like) fellow, asked us to write an essay defining poetry. Instead of the essay, I wrote this poem. I never really was one for following directions.

Poetry Is…

Poetry is?
The Stork asks,
his beady eyes darting to
and fro.
omigod!
I do not know –
I DO NOT KNOW!

He stands there on one leg asking me
to define the indefinable.
What is Poetry?
Some sort of verse?
Must it rhyme? Must it flow?
omigod… I don’t know!

The stork paces,
waiting for my answer,
waiting for me to speak.
If I don’t tell him,
he will gouge my eyes with his beak.
I hear the tick of the clock:
Poetry is… Poetry is… Poetry is…

I bet Whitman could have told him,
even Tennyson, Keats or Thoreau…
But as for me,
I do not know.
I do not know.

 Like what you've read? Read more at kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com!

Do you compose poetry, write prose, make art, or take photos? Then you deserve to be recognized! Find out how!