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About Literature / Professional Michael-Israel JarvisMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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In the Ice :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 0
Mature content
Profile :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Tyranny of Consciousness
I choke on my eyes
blinking
one by
one I
swallow, retch
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they play drums on the knuckles that twitch
under the skin
of my chest.
.clings around my ribs
and resists
the battering sacks that my lungs become
a volume of silence
a chaos of roaring
a weep of shouts
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
At last
I swallow my eyes
one
by one
forcing them like needles
through thick wet leather
They are still open in the dark
of my stomach
still roving.
.blinking in the socket of my bowel
and still.
they will not lie down.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
All of a Man :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Literature
Poetry Live March, 2016 - Cambridge
Here are two sedate witches
shawled in the dignity of dark colours
sober nuns in the order of
the word Written
the word Spoken
the word offered in devotion
Spelled to catch meaning
they raise
their  true image from the ink cauldron
to speak with the dead that once they were
and by voice they force the lungs of memory
to breathe again
These two wise women
sedate
teenagers.
They scry the personal past
but the fleeing fearful young
run forward.
The witches are safe now that we burn children.
later
the fat black woman
slight and quiet and a hundred meters tall
so full of voice
like a jericho whisper at the walls of babylon
she hauls whoops from the uniform rows
sows shaking heads among the lads
a pale crop ripe to blush
at her rap
an offence of baby sounds
without pretence of violence
then
she leaves the stage on the strength of a smile—she will never be colonised.
last
striding toward us
dragging secrets into the stage lights
some kind of wizard
his voice rolls with oceans
and
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Saint of St. Lazare
On the escalator in St. Lazare
going down as
we ascend
there is an old man wearing no pants
his pale legs like lolly sticks
descend
from a grubby coat just long enough to hide what
nestles between those withered thighs
he stares straight ahead as he
passes with the diagonal serenity of
a sad line graph
he is chewing even though his mouth is
empty
busted washing machine tongue
hidden under a short
beard like lichen clinging.
He doesn’t seem to care about his missing trousers.
Now he is out of sight as the escalator
nudges me on to walk again
and he is gone
along with the troubling absence he wore
leaving only the dangle of
question? marks
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
the hail
the hail
strikes scattered sheets
across the windscreen
textures the air between the shine
of black street glazed in icewater
and the grey glow gloom;
the heaped storm-heavy preponderance
squatting across the rooftop of sky
as high as all the miles of winter
falling.falling.
yet through the freezing applause
-the hundred drumming curtain calls-
I can see the sides of sky far beyond the shuddering fir trees
past the slick rooftiles ,
the walls of the world are blue with sunshine
from floor to arches
and small white flags
drift
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Letters from Hell :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 42 28
Mature content
For the Rest :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Literature
Traversing the Shade
FIRST
The aeroplane plummeted.
Dana, forced back in her seat by the g-force, couldn’t even scream. The noise of the TT-Swan’s twin jet engines had become a scream. Dana could see her father’s hand gripping the arm of his seat ahead of her, his knuckles white. She wished she could see his face.
The lights in the small passenger cabin flickered once. Then darkness.
-
In a café, a young man glanced up at the television above the counter. His coffee cooled on the table in front of him. Around him, the chatter of voices quietened. The other customers, like he, now watched the news report. A waitress reached up on tiptoes to turn up the volume.
A male reporter explained the images. A narrow streak of fire cut across a field on the screen, fragments of white-and-blue painted metal decorating a blast zone, broken trees at the edge of a copse showing where the small plane had entered the treeline, bouncing and already broken. There were fires showing in the woods a
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 2 0
Literature
Broken Jungle
I never seed a woman like her. Fuh one thing, she tall. Moves thru the mark with her head up, wrapped in old tatty furs, strapped up with leather and webbing for water bottle, knives. She got a hard face, a bony face. Brown hair like coiled rope. She come my way, where I hunch in the corner by the scrap xchange.
‘Kid.’ She look down with clear eyes. Colour of dust. There’s scarring on her knuckles, a white line crossing the corner of her thin lips. She’s crook-nose too, just a little. Enough to see it once broke. ‘Are you fit, kid? Are you fit and healthy?’
‘Yes’m.’
‘Do you want to earn some barta?’
‘’pends. Fuh what?’
‘A bit of carrying, spotting, gathering. I’m going into the jungle. I need an extra pair of hands.’
I laugh. ‘Nobody goes into the jungle. Nobody witted. It’s dangerous.’
Her eyes wrinkle up, bird feet at the corners, as she smiles. ‘Yeah, it
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 6
Mature content
Convocation II - Emme :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Convocation I - Obrin, Ameryn :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 0
Mature content
ReGeneration :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 8 29
Literature
All things burnish
All things burnish.
A curtain wall of cloud surrounds
toasted hills and wet black road
with buttermilk.
The blue sky is holding a long note
the warm major chord sings
before the deep breath inward.
As the terraces of cloud
blush lavender
birds wing home to glory-green:
reedbeds fat with summer,
trees reaching with a ready yawn
colouring;
suntan copper
fire-touched-fawn
plough brown.
Tumescent berries harden
crimson in banks of thorn
tweaked to tart-bright nubs
in dark thickets-
the delight of August as she dies
nipples plucked by birds
is slow and beautiful
sweetened with bouts of tears.
In this light
the raincloud greatcloak
smooths the dusk
across fire-set fields, a shade of grey
best fit for a wedding dress
vowing a warm night
and the sleep of tired lovers.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Anglian Migrant
He hailed from a floodbowl under a map of white fuel
but did not stay there,
burning up the flat roads with his heels
to drink the wide blue yawn of Norfolk
and knock the sleep from his eyes with ivied oaks,
that stand lonesome by patchy fields.
He missed the fog, egged from swarms of fat jets
the flight-path lullaby,
the humpy-bumpy flags of barley and rapeseed
heights that hang higher than flat Norfolk,
he missed ancient houses bulging white under black thatch,
not thrust flint-square in blocks of chalk.
The salt winds cleaned sweetly in answer
to years of huffed fug,
and coastal roads, California, Scratby
webbed around the broad broads of Norfolk
smoothed his once lumpen views into green frames and blue mirrors,
blown clear, then cloudy with great white alps.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 0

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which gracefully dissect the almost endless widths
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sing to me storm
Sing to me storm,
Take away the dirt, the sweat and the stains
Wrap me in shadows, caress me in rain
My voice is yours, let the thunder roll
The lightning will illuminate my soul.
Sing to me storm,
For I am a friend of the cloudy skies
When winds are blowing the tears from my eye
The clouds will surround me, take me away
Keep me safe inside the turmoil today.
Sing to me storm,
Protect me in your heart, love me fiercely again
Give me your strength, I can take the rain and wind
Opening my eyes I see my reflection in the flood
And the rain sheets down and washes away my blood.
Sing to me storm,
I am your daughter and I am born to the wild
Heal with the thunder my heart long defiled
Remind me once more of the life that you give,
And I will dance in the rain for as long as I live.
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memory
Wearily to the horizon sinks the sun
And harsh our footsteps ring in our ears
Down the path of memories gone
We descend deeper through the years…

And do you remember still
The comets across the starry sky
Or the way the cotton clouds would fly
When kites danced of their own free will
A tiara of dandelions in your hair
And sand and sun and salty air
Of dew and raindrops we drank our fill
I still remember the way that you laughed
And swam beneath a crystal sea
Your skin drying warm in a gentle breeze
And the way you gave me half
Of a friendship bracelet and an orange
And the way your eyes shone in the storm
While the thunder and lightning was tossing the raft
I know the earth remembers
The garden tended so faithfully by you
Like an angel of the forest, because I asked you to
And we grew daisies and columbine and smiles
We thought we’d live forever then
But the world was already ancient when
You sat on the swing and we talked awhile
Save the memories, my dear
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The Garden
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I was walking in the Garden this morning.
It was new and exciting.
I saw a rose. Regal Red.
"Love" it whispered to me.
I picked it up in my hand,
Holding very tight.
The invisible thorns dug into my skin.
I dropped it, bleeding.
I was walking in the Garden this afternoon.
I was wary and anxious.
I saw a torch. Blazing Blue.
"Success" it called to me.
I touched the flame.
It danced in my hand.
I pulled back, burning.
I was walking in the garden this evening.
I was wounded and afraid.
I saw a dove. Glittering Gold.
"Peace" it sung to me.
I caught it in my hands.
It pecked and scratched.
I let it go and it flew away.
My hands are sore and bloody.
Why does the Garden deceive me?
I was walking in the Garden again.
I was confused.
I saw an oak tree. Old yet new.
"Safety" it promised me.
Rain fell. I ran under.
Lightning strikes. I'm no more.
The Garden is a deceiver you see.
The Garden was the death of me.
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Autumn-Hills's Profile Picture
Autumn-Hills
Michael-Israel Jarvis
Artist | Professional | Literature
United Kingdom
I've been a member of DeviantArt for over eight years. In that time, I more or less grew up and learned to write at the same time. I completed a First Class BA Degree in Creative Writing, with Honours; but it was DeviantArt that fostered my first writing. It was DeviantArt that gave me my first taste of feedback, encouragement; and criticism.

Since University I've independently published three books, two of which were born here, on DeviantArt. You can find Osric Fingerbone and Gravedigger chapters in my Fiction Finder over on the right, in draft form, unedited and unimproved. Meanwhile, I've signed with the Publisher Booktrope, that offer an entirely new model of publishing.

As a result, I'm now working with a professional team to republish my books. I dreamt of this kind of progress over those eight years. I am still dreaming of the successful future I hope I have in writing books, and selling them to people who want to read them. It's that simple for me.

DeviantArt is still here. So will I be. I will always owe this community much.

My books are available still in their indie form, here: www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Israe… (UK link) and here: www.amazon.com/Michael-Israel-… (US Link)

Gravedigger will be republished within the next couple of months.
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He lay on the pavement at the side of the road
disarmed of his walking sticks
as cars passed.

He lay still on the pavement in two coats
trousers tucked into long socks
striped red and nearly-white.

He lay stiller on the pavement than his shopping bag,
wind-whipped by air from over the North sea;
the bag with vegetables in plastic

and a pint of milk
and a small bottle of brandy
unscrewed and spilled over everything.

"I fell asleep in the ice, guv."
There was no ice underfoot
but his hands had the feel of it.

"I lay there. I didn't give a fuck.
I'm 62. You've not met life."
His voice thick in a broke throat.

He called me a cunt
and thanked me
after we'd hauled him up.

"I lay there. I didn't give a fuck.
You're alright guv. I'm alright.
I fell asleep in the ice. "

With two sticks
four-legged, he cannot walk
twenty yards or so
to the house he has a key for
but the door is wide when we reach it
a cold hall under a bright bulb,
full of rooms with locked doors
empty of voices.

"I died in Paris. In the Legion.
I died in Paris.
The Legion kicked the
cunt out of me
I just lay there and I
didn't give a fuck.
Didn't give a fuck.
Is the brandy bottle broken?"

I told him no.
It had spilled when he'd fallen.
Only a little remained.

Mature Content

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or, enter your birth date.*


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[J. Rutliffe, -REDACTED-. Surveillance report]

American Airways domestic flight – Chicago O’hare to Miami International – November 8, 2016.

Boarding – uneventful. Passenger numbers at capacity -16.

Additional Note: Passenger on board; Ayyub Faroukh, 32. Lebanese. Arrived in the US November 1st. Purpose of visit, pleasure; vacationing with cousin in Chicago.

No red flags, surveillance advised.


Pre-flight checks, 23:08 hrs. -  Take off followed on schedule.

23:37 – In flight sandwich. -REDACTED- horrible.

00:45 – Midway point. Faroukh attempts conversation in broken English with neighbouring passenger.

00:48 – Conversation dries up. Faroukh watching film in Arabic on tablet device. Becomes emotional.

01:55 – On approach to Miami International—Faroukh gets up to use restroom. Appears unwell, perhaps nervous? Sweaty and pale.

02:06 – Flight in holding pattern awaiting permission to land. Faroukh still in restroom.

02:07 – Faroukh returns to his seat. Is either trying to sleep or pray.

02:17 – Touchdown at Miami International. Two minutes behind schedule.

02:30 – I have lost Faroukh after disembarking. Airport is quiet but still fairly busy.

02:49 – Faroukh relocated. Subject is at airport fast food outlet.

Closer inspection—subject is eating a Happy Meal.

[Report ends]
I choke on my eyes
blinking
one by
one I
swallow, retch
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they play drums on the knuckles that twitch
under the skin

of my chest.
.clings around my ribs
and resists
the battering sacks that my lungs become
a volume of silence
a chaos of roaring
a weep of shouts
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they will not lie down

At last
I swallow my eyes
one
by one
forcing them like needles
through thick wet leather

They are still open in the dark
of my stomach
still roving.
.blinking in the socket of my bowel
and still.
they will not lie down.
Gravedigger has just been published by Booktrope.

And it's my birthday! Go buy yourself a book to celebrate:

US: www.amazon.com/Gravedigger-Mic…
UK: www.amazon.co.uk/Gravedigger-M…

Or if you're boycotting Amazon (something I cannot afford to do) here is Barnes & Nobles: www.barnesandnoble.com/w/grave…

Much love to DeviantArt people today. This place helped me bring Gravedigger out of the dirt.


---------------------

Get hold of me on here, or email me at m.i.jarvis.author@gmail.com

I'm also on facebook. www.facebook.com/michael.israel.jarvis

And my very own website is here: www.michaelisraeljarvis.com

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

xxx
  • Listening to: In Flames
  • Reading: Mistborn
  • Watching: The Last Leg/The Strain
  • Playing: Pathfinder
  • Eating: Olives
  • Drinking: Badger's First Call

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Grass River view by SivrajStudios Grass River view :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 1 0 Gass View Wind Mill by SivrajStudios Gass View Wind Mill :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 4 0 .MISSING YOU. by evol1314 .MISSING YOU. :iconevol1314:evol1314 88,409 9,486 Cthulhu Cthucks by salshep Cthulhu Cthucks :iconsalshep:salshep 543 284

Comments


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:iconberkleydown:
BerkleyDown Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2016  Student General Artist
Your poetry reminds me of Shane Koyczan's - please take that as a huge compliment.
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2016  Professional Writer
Thank you. I'm not familiar with Koyczan. Will check him out.
Reply
:iconcarryn:
Carryn Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hey, Michael, what a small world!  I didn't know you were on Deviant.  This is Kandi Wyatt from Booktrope!  I'm not keeping up with Deviant as much just due to life and I seem to be able to keep track of one social media at a time, but I thought I'd drop by and say hi. 
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2015  Professional Writer
Hi! Nice to meet you in this form! Yeah, I have a set of tabs that are always open and I try to run through them methodically, but dA is sadly often last on the list. Twitter is demanding! I'm trying to maintain a basic presence at least on deviantArt, as it was so formative for me.
Reply
:iconcarryn:
Carryn Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I know what you mean. It is where I started drawing from my stories. Then I improved my writing and wrote some back stories in here. I just found a play that I thought I had lost and it was here on DA! I am so excited. I can now download it and have a copy for myself and to put up on my author web-page. Right now I should be editing, but I am so sleepy, I turned here instead. It's probably the first time since April when I comment on your page. :)
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 15, 2015  Professional Writer
Crazy lives, eh?
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconchimeradragonfang:
ChimeraDragonfang Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2014
Birthday cake  icon 
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! :D
Reply
:iconpaintedwolff:
PaintedWolff Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Wow I love your writing, it's much more... real, I guess (sorry, I'm bad at describing things)
Especially Skin Deep; you kept me reading, the story was fanastc. My writing's to dark  XD
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2014  Professional Writer
Cool, I'll check yours out when I get a chance!

Thank you very much!
Reply
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