Sonata Vampirica has been hailed a landmark work in the new media literary renaissance. Conceived by award-winning author Samuel Peralta, this sonnet cycle was serialized online on Twitter and Google's Blogspot over the course of three months, to widespread acclaim. Evoking the modern classics, Interview with the Vampire and The Passage , the narrative sets a unique literary perspective, finding in the allure of the vampire a parallel in the reality of violent relationships, and within that framework exploding the myth in all its sensuality, brutality and sorrow.
Classical in approach, innovative in its use of language and metaphor, Sonata Vampirica is a tour-de-force, a marvelous re-invention of the genre, an imaginative discourse on the extremes of love, the horror of abusive relationships, and the struggle for redemption. Read more Read less.
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They have been idolized, romanticized, glorified and movie-ized for as long as I can remember. Why then, have vampires, not been truly poetized? Sonata Vampirica The Semaphore Collection brings us the poetic mind of the vampire. Through a fantastic voice, we journey from birth with the beast who has risen. We are treated to such human emotions as fear, lust, envy, loss, love There is no denying the talent of Poet Samuel Peralta I have to admit, this engaging collection has got me wondering about his human-ess I have returned from exploring the mind of a vampire through poetry Peralta has me wondering how he can know it so well.
For those with a passion for the underworld Sonata Vampirica The Semaphore Collection. I've read Sam Peralta's poems over the course of the past several years and have fallen in love with almost all of them. His poems evoke, inspire, move, and take you beyond your own imagination. This collection is darker than the poems I'm used to.
Ars Poetica , Silk Roads , Simplicity. Past doorway, beaded threshold, the lacqueria, the ivory familiars Your torture runs for years.
Seven Cups , this signifies the evils you have tasted with your lips, too often. And this is the card penultimate, eyes bound with the gauze of pride — Judgement. These cards, death-qualified jurymen of a malignant trial where this my soul, my Jabez, was all but forfeit. Her fingers stroked the final suit: I raised my revolver as the sirens swirled outside. The verdict thundered, and the bullet struck, a gavel — On that card, emblazoned with my face — The Hanged Man. Via Semaphore 21 comments: On the waves, the shadow of this loneliness trails and lengthens.
Its arms reach out for you, trembling like the sigh of a lost soul. Last light, and my despair engulfs this night, sky-wide, ocean-deep. Via Semaphore 46 comments: Six inches, after the first storm. A whir of blades across the snow-packed pavement's trench, and the blower splattered across the fence a Pollock canvas, an hoarfrost-strewn blur from the Tecumseh engine's angry burr.
Against winter, this is your armament - a 2-stage, hp, inch, pull-start, self-propelled silverback monster.
She fought back with seven inches, her scrawl strafed across the night's blackboard sky like chalk. Ah, beautiful - I love the way you lift the mundane into the extraordinary - the details sing. Hilarious poetic battle scene and personification of our Winterly tasks. Though I stumbled not knowing how to pronounce "Tecumseh"! Did you know that Rorschach was inspired by a poet's drawings?
Winter Fray - I can relate and wish I had thought of this word pairing. It would fit my blog as a title nicely.
Editorial Reviews. Review. Praise for The Semaphore Collection and Samuel Peralta: "Luminous." - Hannah Stephenson, The Huffington Post. "These words are. Sonnets from the Labrador traces a landscape of the imagination, born out of the harshly beautiful northern reaches of the Labrador Sea, a world of icebergs and.
Anyhow, enough with envy. I'm pleased that the snow has departed my patch of ground and spring is offering the sounds of lawnmowers instead of snowblowers. Winter is the last season of our very lives, and the preview we get every year just doubles our downer as the years pile up like old magazines in the basement.
We have mildish winters here in the Northwest, but I hate driving and commuting in snow. Since I've retired, I can chill a bit, and not want to strangle snowflakes. The line "She fought back with seven inches, her scrawl strafed across the night's blackboard sky like chalk.
The rhythm picks up speed. How great imagery of a snow moving machine. Myself I'm still using shovel.. But I once wrote a sonnet about an old tractor. Very good--what does it say about us, trying as we do to bring order the the world's wildness? All we can do is hold it at bay for a short spell. This piece can also be read as a symbol of human's resistance against despair or depression.
Again, very well done! Reading this again, again, again, again Think I might have to give up being a poet Seriously, this is amazing.
You manage to make the form appear so natural. Beautifully written adventure of your winter battle.