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    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things
    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things
    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things
    Ebook63 pages42 minutes

    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things

    By Scott Vanya

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    About this ebook

    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things-A Little Bit of Anti-Logical Thinking in a Prose Poem Collection

    I have included in this work: all those prose poems I have written since 1986 and a few other things, that fall outside the realms of either prose or poetry, hence the second title.

    To me, Poetic Prose is that which "feels" poetic, that is has the Ring of Truth, but does not set aside it's foundation in The Real. Many times, I have pondered the bedrock of poetry and most of the time found it to be: That Which Sounds TRUE. Prose on the other hand, like fable, myth, and legend, while based on Truth, calls us to believe that a world exists outside our own, though none the less "real".

    What these pieces do, many of them philosophical/metaphysical musings, is say: Here is a Reality, x, y, z, and Yes, it is True, but it is ALSO Real. Sometimes, the two of those do Meet in the middle, but can only be called to, like a best friend, you have not seen in a long time.

    I hope you enjoy them, and they empower you to set aside ANY and ALL concepts you have about what "Form" means and just right like you hear it.

    Peace.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScott Vanya
    Release dateApr 27, 2014
    ISBN9781310559679
    Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things
    Author

    Scott Vanya

    I've been writing for a very long time, what seems like my whole life, taking it seriously from the time I was about 11. Now, at 46, I think I may be starting to get the hang of it: Say what you feel, as passionately as you can, but always with an ear turned to those who are listening.Most of my more serious work is done at live performances, which i do totally extemporaneously, channeling the mood of the room as my fingers play on the guitar. You can see some of that if you go to "my" website. (Open Mics Austin is a platform I created to showcase the Spoken Word scene here in Austin, TX. Only a small role in which i play.)As far as I can tell what makes good writing is LOVE. Love ,plainly simply, and with no strings attached.I put these words/books before you, not so much because I want something back from it, because I think and feel like I feel my bones and my soul, if you were to see the world, experience it like it do, for even a brief moment, you would walk away from that happier, more alive, compassionate and in tune with all those around you.Peace, good will, and harmony. Let those be your guiding light.Agape forever,Scott VanyaPublication Credits:Stepping Stones Magazine, The Main Street Rag, www.carcinogenicpoetry.com, Texas Art Initiative, Phoenix New Life Poetry, Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, Red Owl, The Story Teller, The Blind Man's Rainbow, Atlantic Pacific Press

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      Book preview

      Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things - Scott Vanya

      Because Sometimes Magic Comes in the Simplest of Things

       

      A Little Bit of Anti-Logical Thinking in a Prose Poem Collection

       

      Scott Vanya

       

      Copyright Scott Vanya 2016

       

      Published at Smashwords

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Tao-The Way of Life and DeathThe Haikuist is FlabbergastedHis Eyes were BlueAt the whim of ClarityI Sit Beneath a Treemy blood is red;my pupils are blackSightThe Pure Truthnot without a little evil is patienceThis wound will never mendHave you ever wonderedGreater than 1; =1; less than 1DiamondBlank PageNot a thing to RightIf I had a sayAfter a long abscenceI began with an urge . . .Axiom and CorralaryMaybe I'll Write to MyselfThe Ventriloquist and his DaughterSo with silence I tell youWhen PictogramsThe PassageParadiso Ad Incarnatae

      Tao-The Way of Life and Death

       

       

      'Lion, I hold no grudge against you, even as your face is buried in my gut, your face rips out my intestines, and my eyes flicker into fading grays, your teeth rippling in the red of my blood and an august sunlight."

       

      'Zebra, I thank you, as I feel your warm flesh and muscle slide down my throat in each ravenous mouthful. Your caked and matted blood my lovers and children, all of my pride, will lick from my golden mane later.'

       

      'Lion, spare my children, though I know you can not, or to the hyenas they will fall in weakness of youth or decrepitude. The blood will spill from them and their eyes will shut to for good from teeth such as yours or a slower though equally malignant death.

       

      'Zebra, your flesh fills me as I empty you and I paw at your sides claws extended to dig deeper in toward the sweeter parts, never satisified. I'll hobble away, engorged, belly full, and be forced to sleep all of this off.'

       

      It was meant to be this way, the Zebra says to the Lion as he sets off.

      Previous:Next

      The Haikuist is Flabbergasted

       

       

      I, that is the persona I here in adopt, has been reading up on his religion and peace. Those are hard words to write with the wind and occasional drop of rain chilling me. I have little else to say.

       

      They who forgive me a moment's recourse know I can hear nothing but the sound of time passing. The part of

      the clock forgotten, left out of the instructions, would have made even the swiftest river stop. Yes, writing is the solace this man keeps. Though he has been worn to a soft veneer his lips gently mumble promises heard from the woman soft and warm lying in their bed.

       

      When I awoke that is this light young and new reached forth from its cave and touched the barren wastes of the valley, cliff-face in front, I did not expect the slow stride of the Haikuist would catch up with me.

       

      The only line Man knows is the vein which blood pours through. Eving about the body, one direction forward, the heartbeat slows, the other side approached.

       

      Flame-singed page of Dharma only a fool would pull from the fire.

       

      Even cartoon faces seemed alive and believable when my eyes stared up into a reflection of the world.

       

      I am old and with only a few breaths left. The Haikuist encapsulating the universe is unable to continue holding his pen. Then he dies.

      Previous:Next

      His Eyes were Blue

       

       

      One would have thought him a child were it not for the grey about his neck.

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