The Rainbow’s End #5

Jaria Cecil Sowl: the unconventional one

Jariah Cecil Sowl, unconventional in life, love and writing, started writing after a deeply depressing event … Tribulations caused this writer to take on the writing skill or to put his talent into use … The tribulations may have gone by, but luckily his writing stayed, for you, for me, for the world … You may like his writing, you may dislike it, but one thing is for sure: he is talented. The author has published some pieces and is working on his first collection of poetry. Hopefully one day, soon, we can enjoy the published works of Jariah Cecil Sowl.

Short Bio

Jaria chose to withhold most personal data due to his privacy. Close ones are not aware of his writing and who are we to change that? Noone.

I have a 27 poem book that I am trying to self-publish called ‘Square Tree’, you can find the first 3 chapters on my blogspot,  http://www.jariacecilsowl.blogspot.com/ and if you are interested in reading more I am selling copies for 8 dollars.  My email address is abstractpictures@hotmail.com. Thank you,

 

Five questions:

Who are your favorite authors?

Simply?  Polotinik, Mirokami, Neil Gamon, Voltaire, Kafka, Dostoyovsky, most of the greats.  I think the hat goes to Oscar Wilde though, after excluding the first three. His way of displaying dialogue is beyond me at times.  I am as well enamored with Dorthy Parker and many other female authors who carried the shirt of the women ‘s rights movement on their shoulders for so long, as well.  I could go and most likely fill a few pages with authors and works by these authors that have change me in some way or I feel changed the world for the better, my aunt owns a bookstore, but I will keep it brief so as not to overwhelm the reader.

 

Why did you choose this way of publishing?

I like interacting with people and competing for ideas, current events and I as well like to share help and gather help from other authors.  I choose to join the writing group outsiderwriters.ning for the simple reason that I wanted feedback on what people liked and didn’t like about my work so that I could funnel it into writing that would get the most for both me and the reader.  I still like the old way of publishing best, where you send in a manuscript and they either send it back or keep it, but computers are the future so I have opted for this route to bring my words before the audience’s. 

 

Your fascination with the name Jaria and why I never published under my real name?

Jaria was a name that I came up with when I was ‘down and out’ in Melbourne Australia.  I had traveled there to see a girl, with 80$ in my pocket and she didn’t want to talk to me so I just started drinking and writing and became very depressed.  Somebody told me a story about the angle Uriah, and I was intrigued so I picked Jaria because it has the same number of letters as my name and I wanted a writing name.  I choose not to use my real name, because I don’t wish to involve my family in the politics of my world, so I use a writing name as a kind of separation from family and my writing. 

 

4) Your willingness to help other writers … is, let’s say, rather uncommon in the contemporary writing world. Do you see that the same way and how did you get to such a positive attitude?
 
I look at the groups of writers that stood out over the past century and realize my limits and my potential and feel that a group is more pronounced then a single member.  To not lay myself in the paths of these writers, but use them instead as a basis of where I draw my work from I look at the Beatniks and Dorothy Parker and her groups, writing groups like Hemingway, Steinbeck and Tolkein, and see the benefits of incorporating my work in with other writers, that way I have more freedom in my work, that and although I am dark soul wandering around looking for deaths of past intolerances I feel that I can help motivate young authors and writers and perhaps help more with bringing back bound books instead of where I fear writing is going which is on-line narrated books of peoples work that people listen to in the shower, while getting reading for work, therefore subtracting the imagination and mental aspects of actually sitting down with a cup of coffee or wine and enjoying a book on the porch of your veranda.  I don’t know I guess I think it is better than not helping, but that is my personal opinon. 

 

5) Your poetry is great but highly unconventional … we all have negative feedback once in a while but in a case like yours people need to be willing to understand your poetry … how do you deal with closed attitudes?

If my work gets rejected by a major publisher, I simply thank them for reading my work and try and find out what they are looking for.  If it is a style of work that I am able to distribute later I try and send them something that had been modified to fit their styles.  I am a man of many styles and formats of writing so if somebody takes a direct shot at me I handle it quickly and to the best of my abilities.  My work would not be considered strong if it is easily knocked down and destroyed and I am not really that big of a fan of people who make allowances or set half way goals in life.  I am attempting to be the best writer/poet that I can possibly be while not losing myself completely, as well as paying respects to those who have already made names for themselves.  I hope that makes sense.  If I see into your eye you can as well see into mine. 

Poems

Crow

By Jaria Cecil Sowl

Swollen lands, criminal hands wrapped around the throats of the masses feeding ingenious methods,

I am the thunder cloud that struck electricity into existence. 

Throw down words over tambourine dreams,

Like napalm I make the steam rise,

Confiscating your hate and leaving you with one word in the sun baked lands,

Cry with me I feed on those who feel the need to bleed,

I have motivational increase in my speed like Cassidy,

Flying over these lands that where once green,

Hop on Sundays,

Preach on Monday and enter the eternal lands as a grain of sand. 

Project bless us,

As beggars hover over their bled ideologies,

I am your theory at its burning point.

Found underground birthing an entire feeling that now bleeds your ears like sound,

I am pound for pound an industry dusting the surface as the spiders drop down,

I am round and round,

Sound for sound the ground as it echoes,

I bring light to her face while from deep with-in I feel the world and its sin,

Motivate your hate letting you take a look at your future,

If only you weren’t the sign that things don’t change,

My thoughts circle the land like a furnace in the castle of a glowing moon child,

Fleeing the land and nails catch a file,

So laugh if you want as anti-progress and ingested breaks,

Count your prophets accomplishments next to mine,

Flying around the world blind,

Remembering that it takes nothing to kill and a lot to save so liquid life made,

I add another dream to the grave.

 

 

Edenistic Values

 

Held by the furies,

These words will raise the phantoms,

Dance with me my fate.

 

As I graze in the pastures of future ideas bent,

With the hellish furies of so many ideals pitched to pay rent,

Heaven sent hope in the form of spiritual decadence,

Now I dance through hell with sword sheathed payments,

Lies to so many both sides draw the line in sand totting achievements,

Meanwhile the lanes are clogged with future endearments,

We lounge around with hearts in the air fearing what the wyverns meant,

When they said that his pain will be marred with his hearts deep under the pavement,

But if I could go back and stack dollars around the collars that float from directions the arrows went,

I would still flock to the sides of whose words that truth really went,

So now I lay with the crows covered like plague ridden peasant,

All my efforts marked in chalk while chased by the laughter and a death ridden scent,

To fly no more with the angles and demons.

 

 

 

 

…Nightmare…

By Jaria Cecil Sowl

 

These hours are cold and these lines spill forth the boredom of a diving binded saint as he walks the waking steps of lonesome churches.  The boards of this castle quake with his anger as he chases the faun from the clean steps of his shy demeanor out onto the portals of the angelic glen.  Plants dance with the approach of her whispered body and he clenches his necklace as if his fate where in the hands of this moonlit night.  The words that fold are the words that remove the cold and the blended thoughts of entwined spirals shiver with the ecstatic daze of clean air.  These rare moments expand to perform her wishes and kittens frolic in her unaired delight.  I haunt the hours of these roads looking to grasp hold of sanity and follow the land and move to the silent wholes of darkness.  I laugh with a solemn face and place my attire in folded futuristic pastures and all is how it is supposed to be.  Laying with the ceiling as a star guide and the floor as a place for peace.  Far away howls of dying minds clasp hold of his keys and by the blatant batted lies that lay before the breathing breaths of this desire.  I hold hearts for nights and spend the after moments licking the pale fur of my patterned heart.  Laying my fate in the abyss, I remove my line hesitant and see the winds shift to fit her in, death is by my breath and my mind may be passed to another, only if they resemble this teetering un-eared brother.  So may the fates do my wish, give us silence and a kiss?  I can only ask and leave the rest in your rose bud hands. 

 

 

The Fourth Monkey

By Jaria Cecil Sowl

Several years pass before his blinking eyes, risen is the lions cry.  Minds have tilted and tiles found the caress of natures lost mental patient.  Burdened by a palace of Alice like ways and a taunting day dream,  His mind serves only servitude.  The doldrums pulse like monotony and mutiny.  Shiny emblems blaze like a crows lost way.  Safe, your mind from the tunnels of this tediousness and blend to the barb wire dreams of narcolepsy.  Sleep floods the taunts and minds line the pavement in chalk. I am the Roar that echoes across the land, honor blends with his mind again.  Friends find frequent calls and all goes back to how it was meant to be.  Woke in a dream with a yoke and blade.  Shade dances like I went panceless at a nectarine ball, mystically inclined to line the words with spines.  Warmth and cold found within the seasons hold and I cannot tell you more for the roll with bring more and the dangerous grace will look not near my face.  Fiend for my ways, gone too far like an architectural maze and panes bring in the light.  The light blends to grain soon son you will bring forth the rain, because the dead have risen and I share pears with winter’s cataclysm.  Catastrophic vampires embed their embrace in a mantis like tundra of ideas, shattering the days like I graced the storm with thoughts of yester mourn.  Me?  I live within the trees laughing like I was at sea, with a whale approaching me, choking on dandy lion means, while waving hands with too many weapons and to many fleas just how things where meant to be.  Drugged and induced and drug to the castle, like a picture pictured next to fabric.  Hate one and love the other, all praise the Great Mother.  It can’t be lied though the walls pulse with his hagistry, purple walled magistry, panting in tune with round the clock inclinations, and in his closet are more talking heads then when the walls in sleepy castles where more than bled.  Together we are more than the winds could singe, but separate the missles fly and love is like too many rules and rules bring less then trips include hovering next to sautéed food he inclines his mind and raises no more roofs.  No more melodies no more hate then it’s onto the next plate.  Fate makes his appearance seem a little bit more then the hounds could bare, so he removes his hand and a glimmering halo is placed with care and stakes are really rare.  Next he barters with the driver to fly just a little further and hovers next to his murdered feature.  Making the cups shatter like a Hebrew thought process.  Tantric mentality, arcane grin and many many sin.  Swords are sharp and harps are played, the day is always one curtained stain, herded next to words that play and hours are sour and go away, today is the day and day is my ground hoping that I find a pound and put away all hope of removing my heart from the mantises weary ways, hoping he has been lost with-in the maze but knowing within this coffin that this is a trade and to follow a hollow bartered creature is like one sock green and winters preacher hoping on one leg and flowing like glowing shows only found on some semi-similar quest around the room, looking for my other shoe.

 

The Moon’s Tongue

By Jaria Cecil Sowl

c 2008

 

1—The cryptic scripture pulses from beneath my lungs

As I voice a picture and remain above

 

2—Clouds exit the stratosphere

Racing like mercury towards the burning mirror

 

3—Behind curtains are doors

Opening to worlds where buildings adorn

Hesse like carnivores

 

 

 

 

Day

 

Opened my eyes as the first sign,

Second being a leisurely afternoon with my brethren,

As I enter doors for cooling mind,

Temperatures reach the point of completed works,

Wind in my wineglass,

Compilated ignorance,

Casts diamonds in amidst my gravel dance,

Trucks that stop and ducks they walk,

I move around the forest in chalk,

As the top spins and spirals down,

I stand upon my head,

Outlining thoughts with the rush of blood to my head,

The words that happen next are happenstance,

I move through reality cooking food for thought,

With peter pans budget,

My votes are relative to the 7 sins,

As today we cast out our morals and are hesitant,

To see past the ire,

As I must be an elitist as well for I sniff McCain,

Shackle my brain,

And that’s about it as pain,

Has its own objective,

Looking to searing vocals and Kings Lessons,

Mesmerize my lies as I repeat,

I don’t see a rabbit through your cardboard morals,

As bricks build buildings and don’t fly,

Shattered,

Abracadabra,

I eat magic mushrooms love,

And trip through skepticism,

With romantic visions,

I suspend reality and complicate hate,

By leaving my heart still beating upon your plate.

 

 

Night

 

Time shatters,

As a rattle is to a richoshae,

I burry bays in mindless discrepancies,

Linguistically I move forwards,

Towards Christmas,

As I lounge lingering, laughing, languidly,

Spasm face curls into an honest smile,

As I resemble that image of misspelled names,

As I have shorn lambs but continue through with the plan,

Hands clasp comets strike,

I move through forests,

With a slightly different door of perception,

Seeking purity as a resurrection.

 

 

…Wilding…

By Jaria Cecil Sowl

 

These dying wilting insights wither as ancient trees fall to make room for her mind to place its holy ideas in the willows of times teetering image,

maimed and reclusive she falls into the wilting pastures of the suns fleeting glimpses incarnated as something beautiful and full of life,

With-out thinking of her motivation,

Levitations and wicked weary words as they place themselves into her free fall faith,

She sets about making the walls of her demeanor bend to the liking of this Liken like world,

Hoping that with her wisdoms and intoxications her motivations and failures on top of her insipid cluing grasps on nature that the snow will fall upon her coffin blinding the night with intolerant ideologies,

Shivering induced images of apologies fallow her as she chases the seasons into the deaths,

knowing full well that she will find the hardly beating heart of chaos if she births the sun from the moons path and into the light of nature she glimpse shortly for breath,

Hell is a heart that glimmers in the sun,

Death is an hour spent without the thoughts of freedom,

Liquid binding rays of light,

Fall inside the dying sides,

For nine months you hold the world for 3 I bring the light,

I encompass all of this with a frail doppelganger attire clinging to the moments near her with a puzzled looks and strange desires dying wilting and buying these seconds, 

Must have been an apology desired,

Fires and fickle wounds,

Winters lonesome tomb,

I walk straight into these hardly breathing worlds with a shake a joke for the guardians and quotes,

I breath the same air as the Euryines’s as they prance around in the but we made its,

And won’t turn backs,

I remind them of clouds that they cast upon masses,

Caring not about their caste’s and laughs and leading people astrays,

I look back through time and find the blinding rays of similarities pasted through multiple cultures,

Discovered as Columbus did America,

Abused the same,

and I look into the future and see the worlds that bind the worlds that blind the strengths and weakness combined and I see that even when one gives a name the seasons still do change,

But my heart falls with the death of winter,

Eaten apples and breaths of sinners,

I look to far away cultures for acceptance and find that when it comes to age old remedies,

That 4 deaths become 3 with her extremities,

So I lounge in the graying lands with hands made from devils spoons and wicked cauldrons oh they lomb,

So now I sign and lay my name in the tombs of time,

Far from her pain in this world that does not shine.

 

From the writer …

I have a 27 poem book that I am trying to self-publish called ‘Square Tree’, you can find the first 3 chptrs on my blogspot,  http://www.jariacecilsowl.blogspot.com/ and if you are interested in reading more I am selling copies for 8 dollars.  My email address is abstractpictures@hotmail.com.  Thank you,

Published by lenavanelslander

Lena Vanelslander swam many waters. History, Comparative Culture Analysis, Languages, Mythology, Literature, Poetry, too many to sum up. After a life of tribulations the turning point came in her mid twenties: she started to write actively poetry in English. Her melancholic and darkminded nature colour her poems to an individual signature in both time and space. Poems got published in the Stray Branch, Savage Manners, the Delinquent and The Sylvan Echo. Her first chapbook ‘Ma Chanson de Rien du Tout’ has been released in September this year. Her first book of poetry, written with Marilyn Campiz, Quills of Fire, will appear in November 2009. Currently she edits writers' profiles for http://www.gloomcupboard.com and http://www.outsiderwriters.org

2 thoughts on “The Rainbow’s End #5

  1. I wish you all the best for your book Jaria. I really appreciated the reading of this interview, it helped me to understand you better also if I already knew you are talented. Go on like this : )
    Sincerely,
    Federica

    1. Thanks. I have more work along these lines, if anybody is intrested. I meant what I said about your lines dancing like dragonflys in a garden Fredrika, so this comment means even more to me coming from someone with your worded talents. jcs

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: