/lit/ - Literature

>>12717970
Let me tell you, old pal. When I was a wee lad of about fifteen I had a grand design I’d write a book one day. I would go to a prestigious institution like Princeton where I’d write my own Paradise while sitting by the window of my dormitory, smoking a pipe. I would meet a fiery & fair lady like Zelda and together we would ascend to greatness and escape the common rut. I would move to New York or Paris and spend my days reading and writing and cafes, working odd jobs to make ends meet, falling in love with the scents and sights and people. I would learn everything, and become the spirit of my times, and live a life of purpose and meaning.

Well time passed, as it does. I did not go to Princeton, but another “prestigious institution.” I studied English Literature and learned Latin and got the highest marks. I even met a girl, Anna, who I had the pleasure of loving for a semester or two.

But as my education came to an end, worldly concerns suffocated me. Loans required jobs, jobs required time, time required sacrifice. I accepted a job at a marketing firm in Atlanta, but told myself I’d stay for just a year or two, and would move to New York City at 25, Paris at 30. I would write my books at night, after work, and on weekends.

But work often went late, and took the life out of me. Books became short stories. Short stories became little poems on memo pads and google docs. Poems became ideas written down and left to die.

Now, at 30, the best I can say is I’ve paid off my loans. I’m in a relationship now, and we are talking about marriage and kids. I have the beginnings of a hundred books saved on my computer, but nothing finished. I gave up alcohol for lent. My TD Ameritrade account is looking good, and I am on pace for retirement. I’ve tried to get back into reading and am averaging a book a month. I’ve lost a couple pounds by bringing a lunch to work instead of eating out. This helps with savings, too. Hope to be promoted soon.

Never would have imagined this for myself. I had big plans, and I feel a little silly for having had them at all. Now it’s autopilot, from here on out, across a plane of meh.

The Night Palace

When I woke up my ferry had already arrived.
Over the railing and the still river,I saw carnival lights.
The university and the turning ferris wheel.
Bleary,
The world seen through a sheet of water

Then someone called me
Like muffled chiming through a thin wall
And I turned
down ink-blue alleys of viennese lanterns
Past canals and paper walls
Into the luminescent sluice city
Of the palace at night.

Never written a poem before I'm sorry if the feedback I give is too pleb. I'm not /lit/ enough to say anything insightful. Just a line cook. :)

I liked these though:
>>11206048
marriage of american and biblical/apocalyptic imagery and "folky" tone reminds me of bob dylan. I hope you don't think that's lowbrow. I liked the images, particularly the more grounded stuff early on. the simple line about rotten eelgrass is probably the most vivid part of the poem for me. I don't pretend to get it though. What does Jim Crow have to do with it?

>>11206222
This reads like the beginning of a story and I'd like to see the end. The details you choose and the way you frame them are nice. :) Particularly the punchline about the father, and the mooniness of the character after his redemption by the priest.