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Largest Literary Cafe][
Live Literary Lighthouse
Written by this generation for all generations, dedicated to the
eternal community of souls.
DEVIL HILL CHARTER
| The Jolly
World's Largest Literary Cafe
Kill Devil Hill Gallery
National Association of Scholars
Intercollegiate Studies Institute
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Sonnet of The Day|| Poem of The
There's something I saw in the mountain mist, |
That too I perceived in the thundering wave,
But then when I felt it, when we first kissed,
I knew it was something I had to save.
Nature's noble rapture, changing seasons,
Beauty owns the blossoms and falling leaves,
But man walks alone in owning reasons,
Reflected in all is what he believes.
I passed it last night, riding the warm wind,
I was out late, rebelling against time,
Against the wind I had set out to find,
Words to anchor eternity in rhyme.
O' Captain my Captain, hark, it's in me,
This thundering soul, creating to be free.
Sonnet of The Day|| Seafaring
Poem of The Week |
From: Captain West
To: Becket Knottingham
Subject: Re: www.killdevilhill.com Seafaring Poem of The Week
There is a poem that scrolls at the bottom of the killdevilhill page that
is absolutely beautiful. Is it from Drake's book of sonnets or
somewhere else? Please help me in this matter. Thank you ever so kindly.
Salty Doggy Dog
The Captain Responds: Avast! It's by Becket Knottingham!
Every generation wants to be a part of something immortal--
THE JOLLY ROGER
The Jolly Roger's
Great Books Treasure Chest
[CLASSICAL ART AND
HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN FOUNDING
Textbooks & University
Cards that signify something]
the words of the Renaissance!
The Great Books |
Creative Writing & The Classics |
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Killdevilhill.com Great Books Forums
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Moby Dick Great Books Cafe |
Linux Poetry |
On a bright blue, blustery February day, I'm standing on top of Kill
Devil Hill, looking out over towards Cape Point, Hatteras, witnessing
from afar the eternal battle being performed by two opposing oceans.
Just off Cape Point the northbound Gulf Stream and the cold currents
hailing from the Arctic meet head on, sending white spray over
one-hundred feet into the air. Over the years these conflicting currents
have been depositing sand off Hatteras, and the resulting diamond-shaped
sand bar has come to be known as the Diamond Shoals, it's fang-like
shifting sand bars pushing seaward to snare the unwary mariner. While
the shoals are the largest and most formidable hazard, the entire
Carolina coast is marked by such eternally shifting, submerged features,
and thus long ago sailors were inspired to call it, "The Graveyard of the
Atlantic." And as I look out over the clashing currents, which are
indiscernible but for
the mist they throw one-hundred feet into the air,
I am reminded of how it are those invisible inner conflicts between the
polar opposites of our souls from which the visible art departs, aspiring
towards the heavens. Art is the eternal piece of us striving to be free,
and thus all generations seek a renaissance, so as to join Edmund Burke's
community of eternal souls.
I found out about Cape Point from a book my girlfriend gave me for
Christmas entitled, THE GRAVEYARD OF THE ATLANTIC. The book narrates the
stories of the numerous shipwrecks off the Carolina coast. She'd also
given me a poetry anthology, which is a cool one, because it's small and
there aren't any of those tedious introductions to the poems-- there're
only the poet's words. In it I finally found that one Robert Frost poem
about making your avocation your vocation, and that's exactly what the
WWW's allowing us to do-- to make our passion our profession...
THE MOST PERFECT SILENCE
I know where the most perfect silence is,
Seen it in the wild blue off Hatteras,
A mile out, rainbowed sails in silent bliss,
Looked like they'd collide, but they safely passed.
I know when the most perfect silence is,
Down a dusty Ohio road, high noon,
No shirt on, being burned by the sun's kiss,
Sixteen, takin' my time-- it was still June.
I know what the most perfect silence is,
It's what we say when falling out of love,
It roars and thunders right through the kiss,
Says all that no words can ever speak of.
I know why the most perfect silence is,
It is there for the whisper to be born,
The whisper in her ear became the kiss,
Just a dream in DC early one morn.
I know who the perfect silence is for,
It is for the ones whom we love the best,
It is there to protect them from our core,
By the silent trust we all seek to rest.
And I know how rare that silence can be,
With everyone talkin', it's hard to hear,
But I know I felt it, on the streets of DC,
The sound in her eyes-- it was crystal clear.
And it brought back to mind the rainbowed sails,
And the way it looked like they would collide,
Like two souls set upon fate's iron rails,
But the most perfect silence never died.
Gathering wood as a cold dusk descends,
A crisp October 'neath a powdered sky,
Carolina mountains, so the day ends,
Beside a fire you pause to wonder why.
Staring together at glowing embers,
Then both looking up at the milky way,
You look at her and hope she remembers,
After the embers have faded away.
For you know there'll be nights colder than this,
And shadows that thought cannot apprehend,
When the only thing you can do is miss,
Wondering why beside your campfire friend.
For hard work is part of all that is good,
And I look forward to gathering wood.