Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Pat curls, foetal, on the wet bench.
Rainsoaked, he shivers in his pinstriped suit,
The one he wore when he left Mary,
and he splays the broad red hand
that held the shovel every day for thirty years
over his unshaven face, blacking out the sun.
The sounds of footsteps echo from concrete to steel to wood,
Through his shivering back. The knock of heels
Becomes the boreen trot of Mother's mare
to Corrigan's well, he nine years old, lazy flies
buzzing heavily about the animal's rump
and thudding into his own face. Plodding on the grassy track,
hearing two empty buckets of tin, tied both ends
on a rope across the creature's back slapping her flanks in rhythm,
His eyes flit from the small fence, the main route in,
to a short cut across the bog, head-posied,
Butterfly blazing. Beautiful in a sungleam.
He leads the animal on, hurrying in a happy canter,
humming half broken airs of nameless reels,
wild and laughing at his brilliant idea
To find the spring without the path.
A scream. Nostrils flare. Whinnying snorts and mudsplattering thuds.
A leg caught, deep in wire. Brown eyes askant, teeth bared; A tearing,
a rearing. Buckets hurled, crashing into a ditch.
Pat looking around in the bog for Corrigan himself,
sees heedlessly himself a lifetime ahead,
An image conjured in firing iris:
Going to Holyhead on the ferry with his uncle
and arriving by train to a London fog,
(a city of shiny routes to glory and tripwires),
and seeing "No Irish" in the windows
of suburban guesthouses, along entire streets
When he and Uncle are weary and need to rest
before scouring sites in the morning for ganging work.
He might view a life to come:
Knowing the five o' clock start in the lamplit chill,
Cooking bacon off the shovel for breakfast,
Learning to live in a curving spine, a breaking mind.
Neither Irish nor English anymore: a pair of hands,
a grunt, a spit of cliched insults to the new lad with the barrow,
A barrow he'd himself overstacked with hardcore
for the boy to slip on the plank
running the way up the skip,
as punishment for earnestness
and an aversion to shortcuts.
Losing his work through the gambling,
spending the newfound long days with
Mary in Anne's pub, puking the Guinness pure
come evening with no food in the belly,
Going hard on the bench with the cider
with poor dead O' Ryan:
his heart became his lacerated mare.
He splays his hand over his face, blacking out the sun
But hearing his life in the step of passing shoes,
A step that stops then starts and dies away,
A step he should know still
as Mary's.
another masterpiece
i could relate w/some parts of it!!
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
Hypertext purports to end the long
Monopoly print-editors have had
in choosing what is "right" or what is "wrong"
in early versions that a novel's had.
The argument is this: An editor
Will take a well-known book and look, perhaps
to scrutinise say three, or maybe four
editions of the novel, then collapse
their variants, intending to produce
a "ideal text." But surely this rewrites
A work that's truly fluid and more loose
than school editions show? This thought invites
the question: If you showed us, side by side, online, all variants, and we applied
our own approach to reading, to prepare our text that seems definitive, from those
facsimilies presented there, are we
empowered in that we "were those who chose their ideal version of the text, not some
Professor's?" Well, I have a doubt
about this, really. See, you take a tome
and open it, and there, spotted about
each page are flies. Yes, flies. Now, take your book
and place it underneath a photo lens
to make your site- facsimile. And look
at what you've photographed. The curled and dense
imprint of a small and flattened fly
Becomes a comma to the untrained eye.
So, what you're analysing might mislead
your view. A punctuation stroke
inserted in the right place could succeed
in managing, in syntax, to evoke
a concept disparate from what might be
its meaning if that mark were just left out.
And if the mark's a fly-splat, you will see
a meaning in the text that's there, without
Due reference to that work's history.
So, I'll half-conclude that hypertext
Can't really but select and falsify
its evidence. But still, I'm quite perplexed.
How can we give the readers, us, the wide
Breadth of thought these variants provide?
the writer was deemed to be a genious when the meaning of the work was misinterpreted by the business editor, whose own life was made possible by a bad decision his mother had made..(indeed, she had chosen to have a child with a man who fooled her into thinking that he had a future, when he was no more than a habitual liar and had a horrible secret habit which dried the funds in the college savings account) .. but back to the work.. the stain of the fly caught the editor's eye and changed the meaning of the text .. an advance was made and the editor lost his job when the book did not move and he too succumbed to the horrible habit that was his legacy....
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Of course, one of the ironies of writing Internet poetry is that one can continue to edit one's posts. So, in the pursuit of a definitive final version of a piece of work, all previous versions get lost, unless another poster reproduces an earlier variant as a "quotation" in a post or, going back to the principles of hard copy, prints it off!
And concerning misinterpretation: there's a famous incident where a literary critic wrote an enthusiastic treatise on the brilliance of the phrase "soiled fish" in a book of Melville's. The phrase was a printer's error: It should have read "coiled fish".
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Of course, one of the ironies of writing Internet poetry is that one can continue to edit one's posts. So, in the pursuit of a definitive final version of a piece of work, all previous versions get lost, unless another poster reproduces an earlier variant as a "quotation" in a post or, going back to the principles of hard copy, prints it off!
but the only time you will get a fly stain is when you kill a fly on your screen and decide not to clean it off..
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Originally posted by olderman but the only time you will get a fly stain is when you kill a fly on your screen and decide not to clean it off..
The two copies of Shakespeare's 1623 Folio that I've seen are practically decorated with them. It seems that Renaissance readers used Shakespeare for everyday consultation, but only in anticipation of fly spray.
i put up a poem called nigh end travesty a ways back
lost it
it got deleted...
i found the hand-write
and had to re-write the whole thing to make it presentable again...
Some of the phrases are hilarious, many are bawdy and others are deeply unpleasant (as a lot of common speech can be), but I think this site gives a representative and sociologically pertinent insight into a whole poetic culture as used in 'real life', in the South East of England.
Originally posted by Yellow this is how they "chat"?
Yep! The language is even more obscurantist than the dictionary site suggests: someone will say their plates are aching (plates of meat = feet) or that they need a new whistle for a wedding next week (whistle and flute = suit). And new phrases are coming out all the time, almost hour to hour, and people are collecting the culture now and immortalising it on the Internet.
Imagine you're in a bar, reading a book quietly on your own and the pub philosopher comes up to you and says:
"(A), a smalltown loner in a small state and would-be PI, witnesses a murder carried out in his neighbourhood by a local small-time gangster and rumoured occasional informer; the status and police-relations of the killer are well known to (A) in a close-knit area characterised by organised crime. However, the local police decides to construct what (A) sees as a tissue of lies, when it claims the suspicion that the murder might be solved via investigations into the actions of an underworld community of "illegal immigrants", living in the nearest metropolis but also stretching its influence to (A's) area and duplicating its underworld existence elsewhere in this locale. (A) suspects that the authorities' claims are based ultimately on a wish to protect themselves. (A) has material evidence culled through painstaking research (all detailed in this story) to show corruption at the head of power and complicity with particular local and dangerous hoodlums.
But, here's the question for producing a really satisfactory and interesting story: does he compile a case at risk of his life against the authorities and become the hero of the piece who shows the complicity of these luminaries in the dark side of society? Does he construct some public satire, like Hamlet's "Mousetrap", publicly satirising and exposing them? Or does he quietly create such persistent public interest in the case that such cleverly ambiguous questions are asked of the local force until they are tricked into admitting their folly? (The mechanics of this programme of quasi-Socratic dialectic, and the nature of the questions would have to be thought through, to work engagingly in any narrative situation.)"
How might you respond as someone who's read a few books and knows the logic of narrative possibilities quite well?
Do you ever get up in December
at blacktangled five o'clock
when winds howl a gallowside timbre,
bansheeing you to your work?
Do you ever line up with the others,
For graft on the new motorway,
Cursing God under cigarette smothers
As you queue for the van and the day?
Do you queue for the motorway daywork
and hope you'll be picked for the job?
Do you flinch till you're sick to your stomach?
Do you twist at your ulcer's next stab?
Do you climb in the van when you're prodded
And sit in the back with the rest
Not caring till dawn where you're headed
But dreaming of dreams that you've lost?
Does the dawn light up grey? Does the frost keep?
Is the foreman longcoated and flushed?
Are his eyes set to trip up your footstep
As he rankles you (redfaced and rushed,
and shovelling clumsily, shaking
as shudders of blood in your head
feed into your dreaming-in-waking
the nightmare of working while dead)?
Does the barrow wheel give when you're loaded
and balancing ballast and sand?
Do you laugh when you're Paddied and goaded
For letting the grips slip your hand?
Do you bend and backfill ducted trenches
to show you're as good as each man?
Do you carry huge sacks, on your haunches,
just to prove than an immigrant can?
One day, for sure, we'll be the pioneers.
The ghettoed days look out to fenced off years.
No, but I walk through the crowds
too full with biased opinions.
Pleading with silence,
defending whatever has left of my flesh.
Observing the marionettes´ preposterous dance,
while cautiously hiding the last drop
of my blood.
It is my last word before I´m being used again…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
To be diasporic,
displaced between two states,
and to maintain a taught sense of self
(the colony's mirror of the coloniser,
allegedly the fracturer, the third space,
for sure the crazifier, says Fanon)
is not to preserve the last drop of blood
walking the unreal city:
this self cannot code-switch.
Some have learned, some never will…
Some have said words, some never will…
Some have performed actions, some never will…
Some have bent their heads, some never will…
Some have always been here, some will never get there…
Standing in the middle of nothing, bottomless…
Singing what they´ve sung before, why?
It´s just me,
It´s just me
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
And between the mind's binary of retrospect of individuation antagonised, and dreams of a future self, is nothing but the sound of the pulse of blood, just blood, which is, in feeling, the being of the flow of nothing and nothing that is abstract, and not a concept to be deconstructed inside the temples of flesh as word, but to be riverrised like a bold neologism remaining always the lost-chord nonword. Flesh made word, not otherwise, is beyond the words we use to name the blood, and into the knowledge of heart-wisdom from the black vale of words with little use, we will return. Blood. In this rush, this viscerality roaring as silence against my very words, is the understanding of nowness to explore in pushing language from within to the heart of expression. Our prerogative?: An inexorable, wordless, shapeless, selfless pumped harbinger of release from poisoned self-assertion; a hallowed no-oneness achieved between wastrel thoughts, sometimes, in the pulse of physical labouring, in spite of everything. Blood when listened to as blood destroys the rhetoric of self assertion, the thought of otherness, the clamour for blame, the clamour for revenge. The reading of the text of the sound of blood inside is the text of jouissance.
And between the binaries of future-memories and
lies about the others,
is sarcasm inside the temples,
the inexorable,
wordless,
shapeless,
selfless pumped self of no-oneness
in the pulse of
physical bestial satisfaction.
No-one ever said anything
before this razor cut into my veins
an arsenal of coloured tears
to fight the handshake of him when passing by,
in the little world of worn out platitudes:
This toil is the state,
The word made flesh,
and the rack that now became the present.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
all ´the others´ weren´t afraid of sharing their thoughts...
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots And between the mind's binary of retrospect of individuation antagonised, and dreams of a future self, is nothing but the sound of the pulse of blood, just blood, which is, in feeling, the being of the flow of nothing and nothing that is abstract, and not a concept to be deconstructed inside the temples of flesh as word, but to be riverrised like a bold neologism remaining always the lost-chord nonword. Flesh made word, not otherwise, is beyond the words we use to name the blood, and into the knowledge of heart-wisdom from the black vale of words with little use, we will return. Blood. In this rush, this viscerality roaring as silence against my very words, is the understanding of nowness to explore in pushing language from within to the heart of expression. Our prerogative?: An inexorable, wordless, shapeless, selfless pumped harbinger of release from poisoned self-assertion; a hallowed no-oneness achieved between wastrel thoughts, sometimes, in the pulse of physical labouring, in spite of everything. Blood when listened to as blood destroys the rhetoric of self assertion, the thought of otherness, the clamour for blame, the clamour for revenge. The reading of the text of the sound of blood inside is the text of jouissance.
I know
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I like wordplay as play, as a celebratory endeavour toward some realisation, fleeting or no, of achieving in sound the visceral pulse of extra-linguistic reality. I even like satire, good or bad; it has a morally instructive intention to deflate the language of pomposity. But there needs to be a deliberately indicated fracture of consonance, and a narratorial distance between the voice of the satirist and the voice of the object of the satire, for the impersonation to work as an act of aberrant, parodic decoding of a chosen text. Otherwise it reads unavoidably as a quasi-plagiarism and misreading of the original piece, which prompts the first author to rewrite their original entry and nullify the impact of the "plagiarist's" work.
Comments
another masterpiece
i could relate w/some parts of it!!
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
*sits on her ass reading the poem again*
captured my breath...
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
Monopoly print-editors have had
in choosing what is "right" or what is "wrong"
in early versions that a novel's had.
The argument is this: An editor
Will take a well-known book and look, perhaps
to scrutinise say three, or maybe four
editions of the novel, then collapse
their variants, intending to produce
a "ideal text." But surely this rewrites
A work that's truly fluid and more loose
than school editions show? This thought invites
the question: If you showed us, side by side,
online, all variants, and we applied
our own approach to reading, to prepare
our text that seems definitive, from those
facsimilies presented there, are we
empowered in that we "were those who chose
their ideal version of the text, not some
Professor's?" Well, I have a doubt
about this, really. See, you take a tome
and open it, and there, spotted about
each page are flies. Yes, flies. Now, take your book
and place it underneath a photo lens
to make your site- facsimile. And look
at what you've photographed. The curled and dense
imprint of a small and flattened fly
Becomes a comma to the untrained eye.
So, what you're analysing might mislead
your view. A punctuation stroke
inserted in the right place could succeed
in managing, in syntax, to evoke
a concept disparate from what might be
its meaning if that mark were just left out.
And if the mark's a fly-splat, you will see
a meaning in the text that's there, without
Due reference to that work's history.
So, I'll half-conclude that hypertext
Can't really but select and falsify
its evidence. But still, I'm quite perplexed.
How can we give the readers, us, the wide
Breadth of thought these variants provide?
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
And concerning misinterpretation: there's a famous incident where a literary critic wrote an enthusiastic treatise on the brilliance of the phrase "soiled fish" in a book of Melville's. The phrase was a printer's error: It should have read "coiled fish".
but the only time you will get a fly stain is when you kill a fly on your screen and decide not to clean it off..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
The two copies of Shakespeare's 1623 Folio that I've seen are practically decorated with them. It seems that Renaissance readers used Shakespeare for everyday consultation, but only in anticipation of fly spray.
lost it
it got deleted...
i found the hand-write
and had to re-write the whole thing to make it presentable again...
very interesting way to mind one's p's and q's...
*sigh*
i can't believe mods deleted THAT one
lol
http://www.phespirit.info/cockney/
Some of the phrases are hilarious, many are bawdy and others are deeply unpleasant (as a lot of common speech can be), but I think this site gives a representative and sociologically pertinent insight into a whole poetic culture as used in 'real life', in the South East of England.
Yep! The language is even more obscurantist than the dictionary site suggests: someone will say their plates are aching (plates of meat = feet) or that they need a new whistle for a wedding next week (whistle and flute = suit). And new phrases are coming out all the time, almost hour to hour, and people are collecting the culture now and immortalising it on the Internet.
gawd...
are they having to explain themselves all the time?
deep fried
and served up steamy
"(A), a smalltown loner in a small state and would-be PI, witnesses a murder carried out in his neighbourhood by a local small-time gangster and rumoured occasional informer; the status and police-relations of the killer are well known to (A) in a close-knit area characterised by organised crime. However, the local police decides to construct what (A) sees as a tissue of lies, when it claims the suspicion that the murder might be solved via investigations into the actions of an underworld community of "illegal immigrants", living in the nearest metropolis but also stretching its influence to (A's) area and duplicating its underworld existence elsewhere in this locale. (A) suspects that the authorities' claims are based ultimately on a wish to protect themselves. (A) has material evidence culled through painstaking research (all detailed in this story) to show corruption at the head of power and complicity with particular local and dangerous hoodlums.
But, here's the question for producing a really satisfactory and interesting story: does he compile a case at risk of his life against the authorities and become the hero of the piece who shows the complicity of these luminaries in the dark side of society? Does he construct some public satire, like Hamlet's "Mousetrap", publicly satirising and exposing them? Or does he quietly create such persistent public interest in the case that such cleverly ambiguous questions are asked of the local force until they are tricked into admitting their folly? (The mechanics of this programme of quasi-Socratic dialectic, and the nature of the questions would have to be thought through, to work engagingly in any narrative situation.)"
How might you respond as someone who's read a few books and knows the logic of narrative possibilities quite well?
Just a thought for storytellers.
at blacktangled five o'clock
when winds howl a gallowside timbre,
bansheeing you to your work?
Do you ever line up with the others,
For graft on the new motorway,
Cursing God under cigarette smothers
As you queue for the van and the day?
Do you queue for the motorway daywork
and hope you'll be picked for the job?
Do you flinch till you're sick to your stomach?
Do you twist at your ulcer's next stab?
Do you climb in the van when you're prodded
And sit in the back with the rest
Not caring till dawn where you're headed
But dreaming of dreams that you've lost?
Does the dawn light up grey? Does the frost keep?
Is the foreman longcoated and flushed?
Are his eyes set to trip up your footstep
As he rankles you (redfaced and rushed,
and shovelling clumsily, shaking
as shudders of blood in your head
feed into your dreaming-in-waking
the nightmare of working while dead)?
Does the barrow wheel give when you're loaded
and balancing ballast and sand?
Do you laugh when you're Paddied and goaded
For letting the grips slip your hand?
Do you bend and backfill ducted trenches
to show you're as good as each man?
Do you carry huge sacks, on your haunches,
just to prove than an immigrant can?
One day, for sure, we'll be the pioneers.
The ghettoed days look out to fenced off years.
too full with biased opinions.
Pleading with silence,
defending whatever has left of my flesh.
Observing the marionettes´ preposterous dance,
while cautiously hiding the last drop
of my blood.
It is my last word before I´m being used again…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
displaced between two states,
and to maintain a taught sense of self
(the colony's mirror of the coloniser,
allegedly the fracturer, the third space,
for sure the crazifier, says Fanon)
is not to preserve the last drop of blood
walking the unreal city:
this self cannot code-switch.
Some have said words, some never will…
Some have performed actions, some never will…
Some have bent their heads, some never will…
Some have always been here, some will never get there…
Standing in the middle of nothing, bottomless…
Singing what they´ve sung before, why?
It´s just me,
It´s just me
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
lies about the others,
is sarcasm inside the temples,
the inexorable,
wordless,
shapeless,
selfless pumped self of no-oneness
in the pulse of
physical bestial satisfaction.
No-one ever said anything
before this razor cut into my veins
an arsenal of coloured tears
to fight the handshake of him when passing by,
in the little world of worn out platitudes:
This toil is the state,
The word made flesh,
and the rack that now became the present.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
all ´the others´ weren´t afraid of sharing their thoughts...
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I know
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.