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We encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. We look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. To ensure this level of quality, we have judges who consider all these things, and let only the pieces they deem up to snuff through to the gallery. The purpose of this is to push our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and to provide our readers with high quality literature to read.



2011 Re-Visioning Contest

Journal Entry: Sun Nov 6, 2011, 1:53 PM
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The Re-Vision contest closed with a total of 15 entries on 20 October 2011; thank you to everyone who participated! The entries are displayed below. Please take some time to browse through them, as they are all excellent.

Voting is now underway and will likely take a few weeks. As outlined below, results are due for the first week in December. Please tune back in at that time for an announcement of the winning entries!  

Take care, everyone!




Entries



Mature Content

AmitySummery
  Through nature, death, rebirth
  Warmth fills marrow hauntingly mirth
  Friends that leave me, later regained
  Trees which grow, eternally restrained.
  Lavender blossoms, fragrance sweet
  Hunt through the brush—who will I meet?
  Friends so timeless, sharing my all
  So near our end, love will now
Fall
  Down into the dark abyss
  Crimson, rouge, violet’s kiss
  Leaves decaying, withering, dead
  Clattered thoughts escape my head.
  My pen has dried; my books have dust
  The air precludes with murky must
  Frostbitten friends with hollow laughter
  Thus my heart to bitter
Winter
  Comes and stifles soul’s red
  Blanket’s nature, apathy’s bed
  Emotions chilled, frozen prisms
  Crystallize the warring schisms.
  Eyes lapis cold, interloper
You Might Be A Strangerwhen you feel the heat of someone
and are warmed throughout your soul
from heated coals, fires, and flames…please
don't let it go
just let it show.
bask between the somewhere
of friendship and love[d].
add a log, build it strong
don't be scared, huddle 'round.
fan the flames
fan the flames
stare in awe
love the glow
don't let it go
if you're scared of getting burned
believing your soul will be harmed
from embers' glow in the night
back away, play it safe
if you're scared of getting burned.
if you're worried what will happen
when the distance in the sky
comes crashing down, crashing down
don't be afraid, I'll hide you in my arms
we're safe tonight.
when you feel the heat of someone
and it warms you deep inside
or you just need to find out all things implied
fight the fears, fight the fears
when you feel the heat of someone.
and if you feel like a stranger in the world you've come to know
then take my hand and explore
let's find another place where your mind can be at rest
because w
Just Like AlwaysIt was a dark night, chilly and free.  There were three men sitting outside, one said to be puffing on a cigar.  The stir of revolution was about the icy breeze as the men chattered about freedom and equality.  No! One pointed a long finger to the distance. The other two quickly gestured a different direction.  Atlas! We people are split even amongst angst. We people are split right to the end!  Soon after the three men split, of course there would be no revolution on that icy night. Nothing more than shouts of freedom and equality. Just like always… Just like always… Thom And The BikersThat thundered crescendo mauls
those natural sounds more diverse and prolific than silence,
leaving the bruised ear to discover a muted state of shock,
The detonated eardrum stilled. Whitman sought the road
he dreamed all his Americans might tread, a road leading them
to the spaciousness of spirit, transmuted to fit
the form of humanity, heroic in the face of fate's immensity.
In California, the poet could but observe the progress
of this latter-day horde, deplore their defiant uniform of despair,
while envying their surrender to momentum.
Captain of my soulI am the captain of my soul,
But not the captain of my heart.
My heart betrays, my soul still stays--
An rock on which I anchor to.
I know I'm the captain of my soul,
But not the captain of my luck.
Luck comes and goes, my soul has froze—
Near me and with me, by my side.
I believe I am captain of my soul,
But not the captain of my mind.
My mind flies free, my soul shan't flee—
Away from my control.
I hope I'm the captain of my soul,
But not the captain of my faith.
My faith's been lost, my soul has cost—
Me nothing, at all.
I may be the captain of my soul,
I'm not the captain of my sense.
My wit 'scapes away, my soul; will it stay—
The answer of this I do not know.
I think I'm the captain of my soul,
But not the captain of my blood.
With blood like dirt, my soul so hurt—
Does soul matter in the end?
Am I the captain of my soul?
I'm not the captain of my fate.
My fate; diving; my soul unsurviving—
Gone, gone, gone...!
I was the captain of my soul,
But never
For Beauty's Sake?Is it for vanity's sake we remake
ourselves in the next generation's face?
Do eyes and lips and hair a full soul make,
or do conscience and mores also share place?
The legacy left behind lies ahead:
not in DNA strands, replicated
rather in kindnesses easily shed
and big ideas, praising words quickly said.
The world weeps with children aplenty,
hungry, enslaved, pitiful in the streets.
What use to them, rigid identity,
who, in seeking food, often find defeat?
Beauty resides not in a comely face
but in our ardor for this human race.
MarianaAnd still he doesn't come.
She sits and waits, aches a little.
The sky has emptied out its eyes –
she cannot look. She hates this time,
when the day slopes towards dark
and the free evening fades to grey.
It is a reminder: once more forgotten,
once more forlorn. She scratches a name
into the old wood of the window frame,
wonders, fleetingly, if she sees a face
flickering across the glass - the scar
of an angel, fallen like the evening star.
Old footsteps pace the upper floors,
old voices echo down the halls.
Her heart haunts and hurts,
catches on the barbs of her ribcage
with each and every breath.
Still, he doesn't come.
It ends only with death.
In a dream, she waits,
watching the clouds deepen
through the noiseless sphere
of space and time itself,
opening out like a flower,
shattering like an idol.
Oh to sleep, to forget,
to put out the light -
He doesn't come.
And Heaven over Heaven
over earth rises the night.
RemembranceThe last to go is         something fading,
leaving behind a trail of once-was, as bright
as the light bulb in the bathroom,
you realise ruefully, when the light goes out
and you’re left sitting on the toilet seat,
poetry magazine in hand. Thank God
you still remember where you keep your spectacles!
Thank God for those little flowers, R-something, as far as you recall,
for remembrance, worn scandalously by a goddess of something pink;
flowers your son floats on water in a bowl, which perhaps held
two sleepy fish before, but you couldn't say for sure.
For you’ve been broken down to pen on paper pinned to a fridge,
a childish portrait in ballpoint blue; down to a hollow in
the pillow where your white head rests. Yet you insist and
insist on being more than only the smell of you on your clothes.
And it's an unhappy wonder that wonders why you get up every dawn
to wander with purpose, somewhere, but instead stare at your feet,
bewildered: ha
Fuji in MarchI stood in quiet shock on the mountain
Before me lay the miles of silence
Land washed clean of everything,
Gliding upon a muddy surge
Of heaving breathing westward destruction.
It came from our east
From the rolling turning earth
That hoisted sea and house and life
Upwards towards the other side
Of the tearing streaming westward destruction.
The land mass rocked and the hills
Slipped away; deep down into the liquid terror.
The barreling strength that whisked this way
With my surf to my feet, my roots,
Forging blindly screaming it's inaudible westward destruction.
I am not aliveThough I feel the world against my skin, the sand-paper stone walls against my fingertips, the silk sheeted mattress lulling my legs, I still get caught wondering if I am alive at all; Alive or just an echo of a life has been, a spectre or a shadow falling through the days and somehow creeping its way into the next. A shadow with no substance, no order, no style; yet I live on in my head, silenced. It took more than just soul as my thoughts screamed out the sound of my last sonnet but it was gunned down before an impending verse could but dream of parting my lips.
Hush, they say. Alive?
So I wonder, what is it to feel alive - What meanings can I mould myself around to give the impression of life? It is sure enough that I feel, that I hear the warm and soft rhythmic hours of the day and are deafened by the chaos of the night. I am sure of the beating of my heart, I am sure but I cannot comprehend the timing, my mind is running on eighths whilst my body beats fourths, my soul, a composer
Carpe Diem
I emerge from nothingness.
The sun has risen in its way;
today will be a marvelous day.
As I take my first step the sun is tall;
today I will strive to do it all;
unwavering, I'll grow and will not fall.
I sit at my computer loaded for bear.
I sit at my computer, replete with thought and will.
I sit at my computer, mind full of air.
The sun travels higher and higher still.
The sun's path begins to falter.
Forgot to eat breakfast; and lunch to boot.
I eat while watching a movie; and another;
whether the day has been wasted is moot,
I must resume writing my chapter.
I sit at my computer loaded for bear.
I sit at my computer, replete with thought and will.
I sit at my computer, mind full of air.
The sun travels lower and lower still.
As I take my final step the sun is low;
I will strive to do it all tomorrow;
I will not fall, unwavering, I will grow.
The sun had fallen in its way;
tomorrow will be a better day.
I drift out of nothingness and into nothingness.
i do fearit was when I first saw San Marino, i felt your breath.
and when it stuttered on my mouth, warm—
(how long ago?)
the way there is an endless
sweeping of sky, heavy; it weighs like your words
and starvation,
the kind that swells the lips
A gray so low it is painful,
the damp salt in the air and a
winter to wash tears
my throat is thick. i see
the cruelty of men
the things that keep me sick and sleepless; children
in a grave of many, or coffins too big
the man who bled himself
the woman who stepped into traffic—and but for loud wailing, the rending of your
garments, you are silent in days,
just days. maybe once a year, but
(you did this.)
you hold us.
(maybe you did.)
and San Marino
and how i shivered when it rained
and how he threw me down
and how it hurt
i don't fear it
my breath is ragged still, but i have flesh. i am a woman
i will watch the ones with hollow eyes and touch their jaundice, their shriveled skins
i will fear it not if it is m
Fore the AbyssImpossible to thee, but not to me,
This seems. Impossible to be
But not to seek, I deem.
Thou are like blooms that would not die, nor fade
Nor change from green to dyes untried and new
Nor droop at night to catch the morning sun;
Thou are unchanging in the light of day.
But I cannot but be amazed,
To see the new-bloomed blues
And see the hoary browns unfold
When vibrant hues diffuse.
Thou are like bees, that would forever toil
Uncaring towards some goal; unknown, untold,
Immortal but remote, immutable--
And buzzing to and fro, would never grow.
But I would take their twisting paths
And wind them in a route
Straight through the clouds and higher skies
Until their goal can sprout.
And I will be the oak that falling, fills
The forest with new life--young trees and dreams
Will spring around my parched and dying roots,
They will drink deep from Nature's liberal cup,
They will grow up. Oh, carry our dreaming
Into the skies: now blue, now grey, now light;
Now darkened night--ascend, and chang





Re-vision – the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction- is more than a chapter in cultural history: it is an act of survival.  Until we can understand the assumptions in which we are drenched we cannot know ourselves.

- From Adrienne Rich’s “When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-vision,” page 35.






Introduction


Adrienne Rich’s 1970 poem “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning” is an excellent example of a poetic tradition that spans centuries: response poetry. Some of you might associate ‘response poetry’ with the assignments you received in your high school English Literature classes and thus might treat it a bit dismissively. I know one such assignment I had involved responding to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by writing an acrostic about Gawain’s character traits – not exactly stimulating stuff. But that’s a rather superficial concept of response poetry. Like Rich suggests above, true response poetry involves a serious examination and revision of the themes, intellectual arguments, underlying socio-cultural conventions, and poetic devices of the original work.

Rich’s 1970 piece, for instance, is a response poem to John Donne’s “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,”  written in 1633.  Donne’s poem uses metaphor to emphasize the spiritual aspect of love. It’s most famous metaphor is that of the (geometry/drawing) compass. He metaphorically suggests that his and his wife’s souls are joined together as one, and that “If they be two, they are two so / As stiff twin compasses are two; / Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show / To move, but doth if th’ other do” (lines 25-28). Thus, he is comparing the top of the compass to their unified souls, which remain connected even though their bodies, the two separate feet of the compass, are physically separated. The woman is the stationary foot, whereas the man is the moving one. Twenty-first century scholars have pointed out the gender bias in Donne’s notion that a woman is the stationary subject, suggesting female confinement to the domestic sphere, and that a man can travel, suggesting male freedom to move within the public sphere of society. In Rich’s version, she revises this concept of by rejecting that two people need to become one, and then by challenging the conventions and language of traditional love poetry. Her metaphors are incomplete and bizarre – “the grammar” of previous poetic traditions “turned and attacked [her],” its metaphors did not suit the reality of her life or the ways in which she experienced intimacy and love. And so her “Valediction” presents new images and metaphors, feminist and postmodern in their impetus, that harshly critique and revise those of Donne’s “Valediction.”  In this, and in other ways, Rich’s pieces responds to Donne’s, critically exploring the latter’s themes, poetic devices, and socio-cultural assumptions.

You can read the two poems HERE  and HERE to further examine the ways in Rich refutes and reconfigures the themes, arguments and devices of Donne’s poem.







Your Mission


I once said in an interview with EternalSunday that we aspiring poets and writers ought to live first, read second, and write third. This contest challenges you to do all three. Following the guidelines below, pick a piece by another poet or writer and write a poem in response to it. Read and carefully examine the piece of literature you choose; use your own life experiences, beliefs and critical thinking to interpret to it; and write a response poem to that literary piece that either expands, explores, rejects, or otherwise plays off of the themes and/or devices of your chosen piece. To qualify for the contest, you must adhere to the following rules:

– The seed pieces to which you are responding can be either poetry or prose.

– Seeds poems must be longer than 5 lines and shorter than 100 lines.

– Seed prose pieces must be longer than 100 words and shorter than 3000 words.

– The format of the seed poem and the response poem need not match – i.e. if you wish, you may respond to seed prose with poetry or vice versa.

– Seed pieces must come from a source outside of deviantART.

– The judges must have a way of reading the seed piece. For poetry or short prose pieces, this can be done by linking an online version of the piece in your author’s comments. For excerpts from longer prose pieces, you can include the excerpt (properly cited and credited to adhere to copyright laws) in your author’s comments.


– Your response piece can be either poetry or prose.

– Response poems must be longer than 5 lines and shorter than 100 lines.

– Response prose must be longer than 100 words and shorter than 3000 words.

– Only one entry is permitted per deviant.


Furthermore, here are some more general rules and guidelines:

– You do not need to be a member of TalentedWritersGuild to enter the contest, but we do encourage you to join and participate in our group.  

– We encourage you to support other contest entrants by reading, responding, and/or critiquing their submissions. (Please respect the wishes of the author regarding critiques).

– TWG staff are permitted to submit to the contest, but their entries will not be judged, and will not be eligible for prizes.

–  All contest entries must be submitted to the 2011 Re-Vision Contest folder in the TWG gallery, located HERE.







Timeframe


The contest commences today, August 22, but the contest folder will not begin accepting submissions until 31 August. This is to encourage the careful thought and critical analysis required to write a quality piece of response literature. The submission folder will close on 20 October 2011, giving you a total of two months to get your entries together. Judging will take place late-October/mid-November, and winners will be announced near the first of December. Prizes will be allocated shortly thereafter.







Judges


A team from the standard TalentedWritersGuild roster of submission judges will be judging your pieces. Judging is not open to any other members of the deviantART community. Please do not request to be a judge for this contest. Your current judges are: OritPetra, nngross, angelStained, AzizrianDaoXrak, angeljunkie, and beautyinreview.







Prizes


Our roster of prizes presently includes the following. This is, of course, subject to change, and hopefully to grow as more of you offer up points, features, or other prizes. For a current and up-to-date list of the prize offerings, please pop over to TalentedWritersGuild’s front page, where there is list posted near the top of the page. If you’d like to contribute points, please head over to my (OritPetra’s) profile, where there is a donation pool.

First Place:

500 points from TalentedWritersGuild.
A three-month premium membership subscription from OritPetra.
A one-month premium membership subscription from angeljunkie.
Feature in a special TalentedWritersGuild news article and blog.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from AzizrianDaoXrak.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from beautyinreview.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from LadyofGaerdon.
1 constructive comment on a piece of your choosing from OritPetra.
Journal feature from AzizrianDaoXrak.
Journal feature from beautyinreview
Journal feature from OritPetra
Journal feature from LadyofGaerdon.
Journal feature from angelStained.
Journal feature from angeljunkie.

Second Place:

300 points from TalentedWritersGuild.
A one-month premium membership subscription from OritPetra.
Feature in a special TalentedWritersGuild news article and blog.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from AzizrianDaoXrak.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from beautyinreview.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from LadyofGaerdon.
1 constructive comment on a piece of your choosing from OritPetra.
Journal feature from AzizrianDaoXrak.
Journal feature from beautyinreview
Journal feature from OritPetra
Journal feature from LadyofGaerdon.
Journal feature from angelStained.
Journal feature from angeljunkie.


Third Place:

200 points from TalentedWritersGuild.
A one-month premium membership subscription from OritPetra.
Feature in a special TalentedWritersGuild news article and blog.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from AzizrianDaoXrak.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from beautyinreview.
1 critique on a piece of your choosing from LadyofGaerdon.
1 constructive comment on a piece of your choosing from OritPetra.
Journal feature from AzizrianDaoXrak.
Journal feature from beautyinreview
Journal feature from OritPetra
Journal feature from LadyofGaerdon.
Journal feature from angelStained.
Journal feature from angeljunkie.








Examples of Response Poetry


Both yours truly and nngross have dabbled in response poetry before. Though we are my no means experts at the craft, we welcome you to check out the following pieces as examples of response poetry.

The Bog Girl Observes the PoetOff of Seamus Heaney's Punishment
I can feel the snug fit
of his hat on the crown
of his head, the wind
on his bare ears.
It blows his nose
to cherry sniffles,
it tousles the graying locks
of his hair.
I can see his steel eyes
against the sky,
the weighing guilt,
the artful wrinkle and tear.
Towering artist,
before you saw me
you were sunny-eyed,
faithful, and your
crows-feet smile was unforced.
My precious man,
I could have loved you,
but would have broken you, I know,
like I already have.
I am the Prima Donna
of your guilt exposed
and bloodied veins
pumping perpetual chauvinism,
and all your fallen faults:
I who lay silent
while your betraying brothers,
shrouded in regret,
hold their tongues,
Who would dream
in simple peace
yet comprehend this barbaric
and ageless, feudal war.

The Bog Girl Observes the Poet by nngross.
A response to Seamus Heaney's Punishment.

Nature's last green is gold.Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

- Robert Frost, 1923.
Nature's last green is gold:
the deepening of summer
into rich yellows, oranges, reds.
In our maturity, grown
comfortable with ourselves,
we stretch out, languid,
in the embrace of a hay field –
limbs entangled.
Our flowers are not the
delicate sort that die away
after spring's first flurry;
they are smaller, less showy,
but sure of themselves
and hardy.
Indeed, the honeyed scents of a
ripened earth are strongest
just before winter, and
we lament Eden no longer.
Your touches are reverent
not only of my body, my soul,
but of my knowledge, my mind;
and I much prefer the hard skin
of an apple, its juices slick
in my throat, to the drab language
and fine print of scriptures –
orchard tastes of an autumn
kissed by gold.
And as winter swallows the
sw

Nature's last green is gold by OritPetra.
A response to Robert Frost's Nothing Gold Can Stay.







A Note on Plagiarism


Some of you may be concerned that responding to another’s poem is ‘plagiarism’ and I just wanted to take moment to lay that notion to rest. Response poetry is a part of the natural push and pull of a society’s cultural, intellectual, and artistic developments. It does not rehash old ideas, but dissects them in order to suggest new modes of thinking. In the academic and copyright sense of the term, plagiarism is defined as “the wrongful appropriation or purloining and publication as one's own, of the ideas, or the expression of the ideas of another” (from the Oxford English Dictionary). We are exploring the ideas of the seed pieces, and then adapting them to our own philosophical standpoints and modes of literary expression. You need not worry about your work being taken as a copyright infringement simply because it responds to the work of another.






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Simplex by helvegr.
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TheFwank Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2016
Hey there, I'm a longtime writer who made the jump into professional editing- what would the etiquette be for offering my services to the group?
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BlizzardBlitzer Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2016   Writer
I was wondering if this Group still happened to be active.  If the situation is the same as stated in a response below, I must say it is a shame.  I really liked the principles here.

Anyway, if you still are the only active admin, I do sympathize.  Until recently, I was the only active admin in a writing Group, which has been waning for some time.  My lack of privileges and voting support made it impossible to run things, and I'd feel guilty knowing that all I could do for the members was to reply to their comments.

I do hope things have recovered, though.
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nightshade-keyblade Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the invitation! :heart:
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Riorlyne Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2015   Writer
Is this group still active? I notice some of the more recent deviations were written back in May, and some work that I tried to submit has expired. :(
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FadedPaper Featured By Owner May 19, 2015  Student Digital Artist
I'd like to join Llama Emoji-56 (Hiding) [V3] I read the rules, but I don't know about any specific guidelines. Any thing I must do before applying?
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