Sta.sh
Today is the LAST DAY for you to get your 12 critiques in! Make sure you leave a comment in this journal linking all your pieces. There's plenty of prizes up for grabs 
On the first day of Critmas, a deviant gave to me. 
You will have 5 days to locate the deviations, starting on Jan 7 12:00 AM EST and ending on Jan 11 11:59 PM EST.
Contest Begins on June 1st, 2012.
All entries must be Literature. Prose, Poetry, and Scripts are accepted. No visual poetry; concrete is allowed.
The story will be written in third person omniscient which allows us to be in any character's head at any time. But try not to do too much jumping as that gets confusing.
Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
EDIT
There's a group now - feel free to head over to #TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.
Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art
One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something limited to literature; I've run across wanna-be photographers that should have been wanna-be poets.
Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. (Source: Wikipedia)
So here's the project: forging poems solely out of titles you've found on deviantART. But before you get too excited, there are some caveats.
RULES
1. Each line must be the title of a work found somewhere on deviantART. Any type of art goes. Literature, Traditional, Photography, Film - creative titles aren't limited to one medium.
2. Minor modification is allowed. You can add small words like and, but, with, I, you, or, by. You can change the tense of a word, such as run/ ran/ running. You can change the plurality of a word as in book and books.
3. BUT, you can't just remove/insert a word altogether. You should keep as close to the original title as possible. Which leads to...
4. A single line can only be modified once.
5. Modification of punctuation and/or capitalization does not count. You are free to add or take away commas and periods, change all caps titles, or correct misspellings.
6. YOU MUST LINK ALL THE PIECES USED
This is a sort of community project after all - your poems will help bring exposure to many artists!7. And please notify the artists that you have used their titles
8. Your own title must either be of another dA piece OR a title someone else could use for their own found poem. The stranger the better. Ideally, we will reach a point where someone could compose a found poem from the titles of found poems
Some Examples
More will be added as the project grows!
For the love of birdsThree little birds pitch on my doorstep.
I keep them in a jar
because
nothing I have is truly mine.
I am only the lonely,
waiting for it to come back to me.
Where the Color SwaysLook to the birds
digging into the Earth
the sunlight creeps inside.
Under the pale-lit sky,
canyon flowers.
Autumn's cameo.
A time before sunriseOut here on my own,
this crushing weight,
lifted,
for a moment.
The burden of a secret
at 4 am,
like a ten minute dream
six feet underwater.
And from our window,
900 million years later,
the last seconds of light
conjure storms
at the end of time
where secrets are told.
Just a dreamOn these steps I will climb
bright eyed
going to hell.
Fire in the sky
In my eyes
Your heart hides a secret –with
your- footfalls in the dark.
Healed in the faith
I miss you…
dreaming souls and mortalitymagical worlds
in the shadow:
self-created illusions.
do you actually think i am sane?
south sea
feels like home.
let's explore
somebody's blues,
[engraved] in the femur of the cow.
taste the crush of a sunset's dying blush.
last smoke--then we go to hell.
There Were Only StarsWrapped in piano strings,
The stars whisper:
Forgetting is everything.
The days remain the same:
Boxes of dead poetry
Wait for you
In the space between
Approaches and departures.
You fold paper for a living,
Ghost writing for
An empty audience:
Nothing is enough.
Finding Treasures Under the StarsIn a moment of peace
When the journey is over
stones become castles
I Watched The EndBelow the rust-ruined house
:thumb354035040:
(Paprika Mars)
the sun's gone wibbly,
something like an astronomer
telling a sad story backwards
to the end of the world.
And he remembered
papilio ambrax dunali
and the roar of our stars,
merging galaxies
collecting lilliputians
in suborganic space;
that it only took a moment
to disappear forever.
Time to change.Where did you sleep last night?
With old trees and little lakes,
because somedays,
the best we can do is pretend
it's a small world.
Entering meditation,
the verb: to dream
about happiness
and sleeping with butterflies.
Shooting the moonhe will have cause to regret
confession,
because
there will always be rivers,
the black sea
nebulous
with disease;
astronomer's insomnia
(a sea-fire
constellation)
and midnight
necromancy
(stargazing
the underside of bones...)
Need Help Getting Started?
I've begun to compose a folder full of pieces with interesting titles. If you can't find a place to start, I'd try going there Here are a few pieces that you can jump off of:
quiet girls in lovesilence has always been my first lover.
she crept into the void of my mind when
i was sleeping and never left me alone.
we kissed for hours without touching.
i could taste the ethereal mint in her breath,
the smooth ghostliness in her breathing trapped
under the sheets for hours after she was gone.
i found her again in walls, in days spent alone.
i have never felt more alone than when i knew
that she was there to hold my hand.
i never knew how to love her back.
but i always knew that i wanted to.
a pencil lacking lead is just like an open wound.she doesn't understand the beauty
that she's capable of. she can figment
the most beautiful picture and not
even try, her mind is a blank canvas
and her thoughts are like the medium.
swish and splash the red paint, blue,
oxidize me with your catatonic breath,
subtle pencil marks like the veins
that pattern your milky, flawed flesh.
hide behind your eraser shavings, you
always doubt yourself too much, you're
incapable of making a mistake, now.
sweetness, caress this empty sheet of
paper with your carefully chosen
words and help me heal the insulting
that had been caused from all injury.
take your pen and etch indelible phrases
into your apho
Of Suicides and SunsetsI recognized his newsprint face
between the World War II vet
and the cancer patient.
Yesterday he passed me by,
his expression as grey as the city block,
and I wondered who he was for half a thought
before admiring the sun,
resting red between the mountains.
I contemplated verbal possibilities,
drawing his attention to the sky
in the hopes of seeing some of the color
reflected in his eyes.
But like the space between footsteps,
I was silent.
My lack of words is found
in a paragraph expressing
visiting times and floral donations,
and I find myself
reading between the black and white,
because "unexpected passing"
tastes
When a poet's heart breaksa bottle hits the wall, a guilty thumb print
stamped into the plaster. she stumbles around
the apartment in a fever, reconsiders the dishes
drying by the sink, can't decide if she's thirsty
or missing the drink. she loses speech, can no longer
vocalize more than a growl, paces the living room
then the bedroom, then the living room- blurs
between the stand still and the repeat. finds herself
on the floor rubbing carpet, growing hoarse
picks up her love poems, one by one. mimics
letter by letter his blue collar hands, a plain hotel room
tucked into the hill, making love under a stucco ceiling-
the constellations forming in a hazy after
bi
at 4amall i have to my name
is a cup of not-sweet-enough
coffee
two cats, and
waterfalls where my eyes should be
all held together
with crochet quilts
Stock: ~Dragoroth-stock, *little-spacey, *mimose-stock, ~Dralliance-Stock, *Dracoart-Stock, !gaiastock, *CAStock
Brushes: ~MouritsaDA-Stock
Coding & graphics: =kuschelirmel-stock
[link]
[link]