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/lit/ - Literature

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7342442 No.7342442 [Reply] [Original]

Hey, I was looking for examples of literature where the writer highlights the beauty in ordinary things we might otherwise neglect. Doesn't have to be obvious, if you know what I mean. Sorry if it's awkward question, I don't lurk here.
Preferably poetry.

>> No.7342470

Lolita, desu

>> No.7342471

A Journey Around My Room Xavier De Maistre

>> No.7342473
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7342473

tao lin

>> No.7342478

Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual (that's a novel.)

Alain Robbe-Grillet's stories and novels, except it's not exactly beauty he highlights.

Anything by Virginia Woolf from 1925 onward, certainly.

>> No.7342483

There's a girl I follow on tumblr who does this quite a bit in her poems but I'm not sure that they'd appeal to a 4chan user. Her URL is http://writingsforwinter.tumblr.com/ and her name is Meggie Royer.
I've written a few small things myself, which is actually why I'm here. I was going to ask if anyone cared to give me some feedback, since I know you lot can be very harsh and won't hold back. Maybe I could post a link here?
Again, detailing everyday objects is a very minor feature of my poetry but I do tend to mention everyday things, because I'm writing about everyday situations. I understand that it's not really what you're looking for though. Check out some of Meggie's older work anyway. You might like it.
Additionally, I run a project where people submit lists of everyday things that they appreciate/that make them happy if you'd like to see some of those or perhaps submit. Let me know.

>> No.7342486

>>7342483

Please go ahead, but not everyone here is looking to help. Some people are looking to hurt.

>> No.7342506

>>7342486
I understand that. Thank's for the warning though.
I'll just type them directly here and I'll only show you a couple.

The first two, I wrote tonight.

>Something there is
Something there is in the eyes of strangers
A switch in the brain that turns us all to children
Our feet have carried us this far, but what if…?

One o’ clock and I am emptier than a coffee pot.
Visible and raw.
My hands are not my own.

It is not a fear, but an exhaustion.
Testudine and reticent -
Surely not. With that hairstyle?

It is self imposed, I know.
Feedback does as it says.
So do I.

A shock to the system takes many forms,
many distances and many durations.
Oh, it is nice to be home.

>Objects
Some things are simple circumstance -
Yellow raincoats, picnic blankets,
scarves that reach our knees
and tuck our chins in tight
You and I are immovable objects
A cancelled holiday
A hidden store discovered
full of paper and tape
November always passes,
and we swallow our pride
sooner than brave the cold.
Welcome home, winter wanderer.
You look different in your glasses,
but never quite unfamiliar.

>> No.7342511

>>7342483
>>7342486

Try the poetry_critics subredddit also, there are some smart people there, and a lot of fools I'm sure.

>> No.7342512

>>7342506
It erased my line spacing in the second one fuck

*Objects
Some things are simple circumstance -
Yellow raincoats, picnic blankets,
scarves that reach our knees
and tuck our chins in tight

You and I are immovable objects
A cancelled holiday
A hidden store discovered
full of paper and tape

November always passes,
and we swallow our pride
sooner than brave the cold.
Welcome home, winter wanderer.

You look different in your glasses,
but never quite unfamiliar.

There we go, much better. I'll post one more too, from several months ago.

>> No.7342513

>>7342473
Is this Pepe considered rare?

>> No.7342516

>>7342511
I'd rather not go to reddit. Isn't it bizarre that 4chan actually seems more welcoming? I was underage b& here for a long time in 2012 so... at least its familiar. I feel ready for your cruelty haha.
Thanks for the suggestion though I might work up the courage.

>> No.7342525

This is the last one - it's not my thread to take over after all.
Here is the link for OP to my project. Anyone who wishes to contribute may, but it's cheering just to read sometimes. http://collectinghappy.tumblr.com/

The final poem was written a while back in a fit of anger. It was stormy outside so ye, a bit simplistic I know.

>Thunderstorm
Fierce and truculent, you buffet yourself against my defenses.
I am so very small, and you are charged with static that hangs in the air now, hot and dry.
The smell of charred wood comes to me now - what is burning? Everything we built?
With a flash, everything is clear.
You cut through the night like a knife, revealing rooftops and streets now permeated with rain.
They crumble under your harsh light.
Where do we go from here?
Thunder claps, like footsteps in the sky, a thousand people running for their lives.
It is time for me to do the same.
The storm retreats into the night, and all is velvety still.

>> No.7342527

>>7342506

Wow, you are original and have striking talent. Didn't expect. I have no specific criticisms about lines, but I know you should keep writing and consider trying to publish them for money too.

>> No.7342536

William Wordsworth writes brilliant poetry about little aspects of nature, it's fantastic. Check out lyrical ballads or the prelude

>> No.7342538

>>7342527
Thanks but I was hoping not to be flattered...
Are you sure you didn't have anything to criticise?
Also I've just remembered for OP - how about Robert Frost? He has wonderful nature poetry and attention to detail

>> No.7342545

>>7342525

This seems the weakest in its current state, but I see where you are going, I think, with the selection of images. Strengthen the connections inside of it, bring the weave of Dickensian rain into greater relief. (in the other lines, not the one you mention the streets and rooftops)

>> No.7342548

>>7342538

But nobody cares what you were hoping, you faggot.

>> No.7342550

>>7342525
Thank you. I'll try to work on this!

>> No.7342607

Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin might also appeal to you actually, OP.
I'll post a couple of her poems I like personally.

>On Lacking the Killer Instinct
One hare, absorbed, sitting still,
Right in the grassy middle of the track,
I met when I fled up into the hills, that time
My father was dying in a hospital –
I see her suddenly again, borne back
By the morning paper’s prize photograph:
Two greyhounds tumbling over, absurdly gross,
While the hare shoots off to the left, her bright eye
Full not only of speed and fear
But surely in the moment a glad power,
Like my father’s, running from a lorry-load of soldiers
In nineteen twenty-one, nineteen years old, never
Such gladness, he said, cornering in the narrow road
Between high hedges, in summer dusk.
The hare
Like him should never have been coursed,
But, clever, she gets off; another day
She’ll fool the stupid dogs, double back
On her own scent, downhill, and choose her time
To spring away out of the frame, all while
The pack is labouring up.
The lorry was growling
And he was clever, he saw a house
And risked an open kitchen door. The soldiers
Found six people in a country kitchen, one
Drying his face, dazed-looking, the towel
Half covering his face. The lorry left,
The people let him sleep there, he came out
Into a blissful dawn. Should he have chanced that door?
If the sheltering house had been burned down, what good
Could all his bright running have done
For those that harboured him?
And I should not
Have run away, but I went back to the city
Next morning, washed in brown bog water,
And I thought about the hare, in her hour of ease.

>Street
He fell in love with the butcher’s daughter
When he saw her passing by in her white trousers
Dangling a knife on a ring at her belt.
He stared at the dark shining drops on the paving-stones.
One day he followed her
Down the slanting lane at the back of the shambles.
A door stood half-open
And the stairs were brushed and clean,
Her shoes paired on the bottom step,
Each tread marked with the red crescent
Her bare heels left, fading to faintest at the top.

>> No.7342734

>>7342538
Thanks, I'll check him out. I like your project btw, simple idea but really endearing

Won't thank everyone else individually but I appreciate all the responses, thanks anons.

>> No.7342760

Paul Celan and Dōgen.

>> No.7342884

Nicanor Parra's anti-poetry is literally what you just described

>> No.7343259

Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley. Sure, he's hopped up on mescaline, but he makes some pretty good remarks on his surroundings.

>> No.7343617

>>7342442
The mezzanine by nicholson baker

>> No.7343809

>>7343617
>The mezzanine by nicholson baker

This.

Also Proust.

>> No.7343813

>>7342442
Proust. Definitely Proust.

>> No.7343816

>>7343617
So much so that it would be unreadable if it were not so short.