Free music and the best part is that it's legal!

I was googling my way around the Interweb the other week and came across a truly awesome (and amazing) website - noisetrade.com

You can download whatever you want for free, and you can even donate money to the artists if you love them that much. They have tons of great artists, it's unbelievable to see how many talented people there are.

All that is required of you is that you provide an email and zip code to get a download link. The music is in a zip file so it's super easy to add it to the iTunes library - or whatever you use.

Constructive criticism isn't evil, it's good

I've been writing a lot lately, almost everyday actually. If I'm not writing something new, I'm revising something old. I joined the Google+ poetry community and I'm trying to get myself involved, especially  with the critique requested category. I figure that if I can offer another poet a question about their work to get them to think about how to make their work better or a bit of advice, then that means I've learned something.

I must admit that one user posted under this said category and I happened to find his poem, and I politely offered feedback, acknowledging what I liked about his poem too. It wasn't negative feedback, just good old fashioned constructive criticism. After all it was in this category. He didn't respond harshly to my comments, but he did attempt a discussion with other community members about the role of feedback. 

Basically, he stated that feedback was not necessary to make one's work better because it would no longer be your work. If other people gave you feedback, to change this or that, add this, get rid of this, it would no longer be your individual creation, it would be a collaborative piece that wouldn't look like your style. Actually 'you,' your voice, would be replaced by other non-you voices. 

I have to say that I was kind of pissed off by this, especially about the part that feedback from others won't improve your work. I think that's complete bullshit. I said it. I took a class that was set up like workshop and I've never gained so much knowledge or improved so much before. Taking that class, where we all sat in a circle, sharing our work, reading it aloud, talking about it, blatantly discussing, critiquing and ripping apart one another's work (not worrying about how the author would take it because we were there to learn from one another), was the best thing I could have done to become a better writer. I find what he said to be pure ignorance; it's a refusal to learn from other people who have had more experience writing, and how could you choose to refuse learning from others? 

It's another luv poem

I was inspired to write this poem from a dream I had...from about three years ago. The title of the piece is significant because the dream was layered. The color of the dream shifted from color to sepia to black and white, and the structure of the poem reflects this, at least I think it does. Please keep in my that this is a relatively new draft - I think it has a ways to go before it's near completion, but it's an exercise for me - this is the longest poem I've written so far. Enjoy!

xo, 

Ari

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Three Deep

Jogging down

the road 

autumn leaves 

whirling, rustling 

and the feel of

cold, crisp air

on my pinked cheeks.

A Holy ruin,​​

the white wooden

house rests hillside—

window panes and

porch parched and

cracked, clumsy rusted

hinges,

on the door,

and a sign for sale

stuck slanted.​

Yellowed brown,

paneled papered walls,

carpet shagged and soft

under my shoes,​

a warmth in this house.

In the kitchen

nailed up​

suspended with string

a photograph—​

a wedding,

a man and

me.

A disorienting dizzy pain,

I fall to floor,

body and eyelids

sink and slump.​

Blackness all over.

Space solemn and empty,​

film reels flick

embrace me

my soul feels, no form

just eyes in air​​

there, you are.

Hollow and heavy

I feel—​​

you, I’ve known before.

Your name unknown,

but soul familiar, ​​​

I loved—

you and you—

loved

me

beautifully.​​​

An image in my mind

Dear you, 

I believe that a good poem has heart, image and sound. In this particular poem, I broke the rules. This poem isn't about feeling, I've been told that "this poem makes me feel nothing," and I'm okay with that. This poem is about sound and in particular, image. The image came from a dream and it was incredibly beautiful. A friend of mine told me that after reading this poem, he saw the "most beautiful image" he's ever seen in his life. That is some compliment. I hope you like it. 

xo,

Ari

____________________________

Sea Night

A Las Vegas night of light

on the beach,

Chinese lanterns strung loosely

across rooftops zigzag,

figures fade into the night sky,

a deep blue sapphire and a dream,

lost and buried beneath

a thousand years of dust, decay, rocks and rot,

of a lost love.

The jeweled lights

hang alone. 

I keep on writing

This poem I've been told is "fresh." I originally was calling it "In Between" but how could I not resist changing it?? This is the first draft fyi; I wrote it last night. I felt compelled to write, I couldn't sleep, so I scribbled it on a piece of paper and just an hour ago, typed it up. As always, every poem is 100% original and like the seagull from Finding Nemo, it's "mine mine mine."

xo,

Ari

Fresh

The end of day

when crying completes,

my red, sore, tired eyes

and cheeks pinked, puffy

feeling the sting—

sweet words

honest words

that cut at my heart. 

My tears tonight

mark ending

overwhelming me, 

consuming me

stuck between

grasping and open hands. 

The middle—

an ending uncomfortable. 

Inspired by coffee, a couch and a city

It's no surprise I love NYC, coffee and maybe writing? The poem is from the point of view of the NYU Starbucks couch. if you've visited this particular establishment, I feel you'll fully understand this piece. Don't copy my poem please. Copying or saying it's your own creation (aka stealing it) is called plagiarism and that's illegal, and I'd be super pissed. If you'd like to leave a comment or two, what you like about it, what you don't, if any part of it is confusing, or any general comments, that would be much appreciated.

xo w <3,

Ari 

__________________________________________

NYC Starbucks

Cracked leather couch

wearing bronzed nail heads

sits watching at the window.

A microcosm of the world

like a miniature ant farm,

where the garbage and rusted bolts

of taxis zoom by,

sparkling because

that is New York City.

Spilt coffee, roasted bean dust,

and dye from a thousand blue jeans,

smudged, packed, and stained

in it’s wrinkles,

couch

sits watching at the window.

__________________________________________

Everything I write is 100% original work.

A poem about something ethereal

This is a poem I wrote based off an experience. It's unexplainable, so naturally it makes for an excellent poetic subject. This one, I feel, is nearly done, if not already. The editor of The Cortland Review, ahem, my professor, Ginger Murchison, said it's a powerful poem, particularly the end. As always, no copying my work please. Tell me what you like, loathe and/or general comments. Comments are always appreciated.

xo,
Ari

__________________________________________________

Morning

Sleeping in the sunlight,

gold and yellow jewels

stream across the room.

Above, a clouded figure                  

looming there, watching.              

We stare at one another—                      

me with widened eyes,                 

and you,                                         

who are even more surprised,    

flee in fear of being seen

through that wall, 

I close my eyes,

but it’s too late.

I’ve seen you.
Seen you.

__________________________________________________

Everything I write is 100% original work.