Whatever you call this...

by Chandni

Published December 2, 2005

Err...Yeah forget this act like it never excisted..It was crap nyw
Thnx for your comments tough :D

Comments & reviews · 5
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backgroundbob
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backgroundbob commented Comment · Dec 2, 2005

Eh, don't sweat it - you'll come up with something better next time, I'm sure.

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Chandni
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Chandni commented Comment · Dec 2, 2005

Nooooo I actually wanted to re-write it in English but I couldn't I just think it not good enough to be on YWS sorry but don't get me wrong here

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backgroundbob
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backgroundbob commented Comment · Dec 2, 2005

Did you just write it because you thought no-one would know Dutch so you could get away with writing whatever you felt like?

::shakes head::

tsk.

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backgroundbob
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backgroundbob wrote a review Review · Dec 2, 2005

I have to say, it seemed a bit angsty... eh, scrap that, it seemed a lot angsty. I mean, the odd meditation on the point of life is fine, but when you start getting all nihilistic on us...

"Ik bedoel van : Waarom komen we hier ?? Wat is het punt."
Everyone asks what the point is at some time in their life: putting is so bluntly doesn't help this.

"Een spel zonder regels en zonder scheidsrechter...
Een eindeloos spel zonder eind..."

Life as an endless game without finish or a referee... it seemed a little forced, to me, and didn't fit in properly with the tone.

It seems to me that you repeat yourself a lot - life this, life that: it's very concept heavy, and what imagery you use doesn't seem to come across particularly well. If I were you, I'd focus more on what pictures you are drawing in people's heads, instead of just saying "this is what I think about life."

You're not likely to find a multitude of people to critique in Dutch: I've done what I can, and that's very limited. Other language poetry is not my specialty.

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Griffinkeeper
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Griffinkeeper commented Comment · Dec 2, 2005

Fair enough, just don't expect a lot of comments on it.



I cannot separate the aesthetic pleasure of seeing a butterfly and the scientific pleasure of knowing what it is.
— Vladmir Nabokov