This month was rather dramatic. My dad, who I have a word of the month poetry exchange with, nearly died. In fact, he should be dead according to the doctors- but he isn't. Despite 2 weeks in the hospital, one of them so out he can't remember it, my dad finished his poem on time. Now here's mine- only just squeaking in. I really like this, I hope you do to! (there may be more tinkering later, of course!)
Eyes
In your eyes, like mountain skies
and midnight lakes when the old moon dies
as lashes lift, between their bars
glow the radiant evening stars
And in between the galaxies
sits a girl by a wild oak tree
old dreams blow through dark brown hair
over fields of green, that surround them there
Dancing through the autumn breeze
fly warm summer's memories
turning over, tumbling round-
within the witching wind I found:
A silver sliver of a laughing child
the tears of a willow, a heart beguiled
a tangle of words left unsaid
boat sails a'billow, a story re-read
Above the wind, the girl, the tree
the stars multiplied in mad revelry
when burning light they meet the sun-
they paused and stopped time's rampant run
Your eyes, so wide, so full, so free
with one look have halted me
and though time may resume it's run
your stars will ever be chased by my sun.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Short and Salty?
So these are all short and more impressions than weighty meaty things. But some of them feel heavy anyway. As always- let me know what you think :)
Forest Fire
The forest is blazing
in swaths of blood and gold
the glowing embers glint
sizzling through violent winds
and soon only the silhouettes
of the Ash trees will survive,
smoldering into the cold night.
Sunrise
How did you come from the dark abyss,
how did you rise from the gloom?
Did the cloud shrouded stars
birth golden rays
with which to hide the moon?
How did you come from the empty spaces,
how did you rise from the cold?
Did the yawning chasm
shut with a snap
that sparked the fiery noon?
Morning
The sun rose slowly over her, sleeping-
Hair full of chlorine and adventures
Lips trembling with heights and hopes
And when her eyes opened, slowly
They shone with the light of a star,
Fallen on seas shimmering with ice and laughter.
Amber
Words drip slowly over moments
capturing beauty, banishing breath
preserving fragile husks of instants
lost in the long walk of time
Loneliness
We are never less alone than in loneliness
when the collective consciousness
presses it's hands to our hearts
and we gasp at the multitudinous solitude,
our isolation multiplied by the thousand single faces
that look out, together, at the world- on our own.
Manners
Hope is the human condition-
when you loose it,
politely excuse yourself
from the room.
Forest Fire
The forest is blazing
in swaths of blood and gold
the glowing embers glint
sizzling through violent winds
and soon only the silhouettes
of the Ash trees will survive,
smoldering into the cold night.
Sunrise
How did you come from the dark abyss,
how did you rise from the gloom?
Did the cloud shrouded stars
birth golden rays
with which to hide the moon?
How did you come from the empty spaces,
how did you rise from the cold?
Did the yawning chasm
shut with a snap
that sparked the fiery noon?
Morning
The sun rose slowly over her, sleeping-
Hair full of chlorine and adventures
Lips trembling with heights and hopes
And when her eyes opened, slowly
They shone with the light of a star,
Fallen on seas shimmering with ice and laughter.
Amber
Words drip slowly over moments
capturing beauty, banishing breath
preserving fragile husks of instants
lost in the long walk of time
Loneliness
We are never less alone than in loneliness
when the collective consciousness
presses it's hands to our hearts
and we gasp at the multitudinous solitude,
our isolation multiplied by the thousand single faces
that look out, together, at the world- on our own.
Manners
Hope is the human condition-
when you loose it,
politely excuse yourself
from the room.
Friday, October 21, 2011
I put on my best, and I stick out my chest, and I'm off to the races again!
And here are more poems!
I like them all (mostly)!
Possibly I am overconfident, but inspiration struck way more than lightning. And luckily, less painfully.
Perhaps
I began, perhaps,
to love you
to hold you in my heart
closer than a thought
to let my mind marvel
over (maybe)
you, looking at me-
looking for me
only, across a room
crowded with
curves and smiles for you
that you didn't notice
because your eyes were full
of me.
I began to hope,
perhaps,
that someday I would
stop wondering
and start walking towards
you looking
not maybe, but surely
at me-
move away from
across
and toward near
and hold you in my heart
closer than air
in my lungs.
Paper Doll
I am not this collection of
worn pasts and
hopeful futures
you try to press on me
like a paper doll-
fitting, from memories,
ill made costumes
that even in your dreaming eyes
only hang loosely from my
thin shoulders.
I am not a play thing,
I have grown beyond
dolls and dress-ups
and into something quite new-
you are angry
not at me, but at the cardboard cut out
you hold up in front of my
flesh and blood self
so that you don't have to find out
what I have become.
Momma,
put away your fears
pack them away with the paper dresses
because I am something you began-
the fulfillment of a prayer
you made years ago
that you didn't really understand-
look at me standing, not propped up by
other hands, but standing
on my own, cutting carefully
my own patterns out of life
sturdy and free.
I will never be torn by careless hands
or tossed away into the wind.
Rose
The truest part of a rose
is the thorn.
The soft, purring petals
that lure
the thick, waltzing scent
that beckons
the eloquent, opulent colors
that enchant.
Soft, fragrant, lush
charming, disarming
in a word: breathtaking
Helen, Juliet,Venus
passion, innocence, love
every desire held
in one sweet symbol.
But, the true soul of the rose
is its' thorn.
Victory
Victory came late.
At sunset, beneath star shadows
emerging slowly from ebbing embers
of monumental blazes
she stepped forward, head high
white arms raised to salute the champion.
He had already fallen.
feet framed in flames,
roses of blood wreathing his body
his eyes staring upwards, hands clasping his sword
in one last prayer for Victory,
who came late to his battle.
Daisy
holding only today
only this moment
breathing only now-
one instant
is all
the daisy
carries
in
her
soul.
I like them all (mostly)!
Possibly I am overconfident, but inspiration struck way more than lightning. And luckily, less painfully.
Perhaps
I began, perhaps,
to love you
to hold you in my heart
closer than a thought
to let my mind marvel
over (maybe)
you, looking at me-
looking for me
only, across a room
crowded with
curves and smiles for you
that you didn't notice
because your eyes were full
of me.
I began to hope,
perhaps,
that someday I would
stop wondering
and start walking towards
you looking
not maybe, but surely
at me-
move away from
across
and toward near
and hold you in my heart
closer than air
in my lungs.
Paper Doll
I am not this collection of
worn pasts and
hopeful futures
you try to press on me
like a paper doll-
fitting, from memories,
ill made costumes
that even in your dreaming eyes
only hang loosely from my
thin shoulders.
I am not a play thing,
I have grown beyond
dolls and dress-ups
and into something quite new-
you are angry
not at me, but at the cardboard cut out
you hold up in front of my
flesh and blood self
so that you don't have to find out
what I have become.
Momma,
put away your fears
pack them away with the paper dresses
because I am something you began-
the fulfillment of a prayer
you made years ago
that you didn't really understand-
look at me standing, not propped up by
other hands, but standing
on my own, cutting carefully
my own patterns out of life
sturdy and free.
I will never be torn by careless hands
or tossed away into the wind.
Rose
The truest part of a rose
is the thorn.
The soft, purring petals
that lure
the thick, waltzing scent
that beckons
the eloquent, opulent colors
that enchant.
Soft, fragrant, lush
charming, disarming
in a word: breathtaking
Helen, Juliet,Venus
passion, innocence, love
every desire held
in one sweet symbol.
But, the true soul of the rose
is its' thorn.
Victory
Victory came late.
At sunset, beneath star shadows
emerging slowly from ebbing embers
of monumental blazes
she stepped forward, head high
white arms raised to salute the champion.
He had already fallen.
feet framed in flames,
roses of blood wreathing his body
his eyes staring upwards, hands clasping his sword
in one last prayer for Victory,
who came late to his battle.
Daisy
holding only today
only this moment
breathing only now-
one instant
is all
the daisy
carries
in
her
soul.
Monday, October 17, 2011
This one's for the girls! (well, the depressed dead writting ones anyway)
So I haven't made it out of the sad poem phase yet, but next week we have a new administrative assistant coming, and maybe that will cheer things up. At the very least I'll be out of this silly office and back to a room with windows. The word of the month is sunrise, and I'm hoping I can hold onto it long enough to make it warmer than what I've felt like writing lately. But for now, here's what I've got. Willow is because I haven't written anything fall-ish this year, and Woolf, Plath, & Parker is because I've been reading the work of several female authors (Vindication of the Rights of Women anyone? ) and I found a remark by Margaret Atwood to be true, and both funny and sad at the same time - "Like all twenty-one-year-old poets, I thought I would be dead by thirty, and Sylvia Plath had not set a helpful example. For a while there, you were made to feel that, if a poet and female, you could not really be serious about it unless you'd made a least one suicide attempt. So I felt I was running out of time." -Margaret Atwood. So I wrote a poem for the girls, but I'm glad we have the Atwoods, Giovannis and Angelous to keep our spirits high these days :)
Willow
It was late September
and all her leaves were
dropping like tears-
cried for cold remembered
wept for pain to come
and if she had knees
they would have bent
to pray the winds would leave
and if she had arms
they would have reached
for the sun's last warming touch
but all she had was silence
thick as the forest floor
to break with the sound of falling
till she had nothing left to lose.
Woolf, Plath, & Parker
A thousand ways to die
each day, at least
I see them fall -
white, luminous snowflakes
and I stick out my tongue
waiting to catch just one
of the flakes falling
between heaven and hell
turning softly, seductively
moments suspended
in a pounding heartbeat
a peripheral glance
or a subconscious chill
a thousand ways to die, each day-
at least! But none of them
has, yet, chosen
to fall
on me.
Willow
It was late September
and all her leaves were
dropping like tears-
cried for cold remembered
wept for pain to come
and if she had knees
they would have bent
to pray the winds would leave
and if she had arms
they would have reached
for the sun's last warming touch
but all she had was silence
thick as the forest floor
to break with the sound of falling
till she had nothing left to lose.
Woolf, Plath, & Parker
A thousand ways to die
each day, at least
I see them fall -
white, luminous snowflakes
and I stick out my tongue
waiting to catch just one
of the flakes falling
between heaven and hell
turning softly, seductively
moments suspended
in a pounding heartbeat
a peripheral glance
or a subconscious chill
a thousand ways to die, each day-
at least! But none of them
has, yet, chosen
to fall
on me.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sorry in advance
I promise I'm not as sad as my poems. But all of this rain and the extra stress at work mean I need an outlet. Hence the more than slightly gloomy poetry. My favorites are the last two, but I like the idea of the first, so I left it here too. I'll try to write something sunnier soon :)
Hope
Hope, the hell I live in
the fire I can not quench-
phoenix flames that bring me back
are burning, always burning
Hope, the bird whose razor beak
pierces my Promethean skin
to steal my heart each sunrise
when the night had won it back.
Hope, the fraud I trusted
who knows my every dream,
promised peace and laughter
but left me misery
Hope I have abandoned
but its' hands still cling to me
and pull me down, drowning
in the never ending sea.
Surrender
Give me no skies out of reach
no more beckoning blue to taunt me
I want no sun to light the long way
and strengthen the shadows behind me
Give me no laughter and I'll find no tears
I want no brief hopes bought with despair
Let me lie alone, in a room of my own
Where only the darkness will find me.
Graveyard
Shadows so cold
the darkness shivers
stone so hard
the wild grass withers
bones so old
the worms won't stay
death so deep
the ground gives way
tears so heavy
they can't be held
arms so empty
they hug themselves.
Hope
Hope, the hell I live in
the fire I can not quench-
phoenix flames that bring me back
are burning, always burning
Hope, the bird whose razor beak
pierces my Promethean skin
to steal my heart each sunrise
when the night had won it back.
Hope, the fraud I trusted
who knows my every dream,
promised peace and laughter
but left me misery
Hope I have abandoned
but its' hands still cling to me
and pull me down, drowning
in the never ending sea.
Surrender
Give me no skies out of reach
no more beckoning blue to taunt me
I want no sun to light the long way
and strengthen the shadows behind me
Give me no laughter and I'll find no tears
I want no brief hopes bought with despair
Let me lie alone, in a room of my own
Where only the darkness will find me.
Graveyard
Shadows so cold
the darkness shivers
stone so hard
the wild grass withers
bones so old
the worms won't stay
death so deep
the ground gives way
tears so heavy
they can't be held
arms so empty
they hug themselves.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Another Begining
Here's the beginning of another story. I've been super busy at work, and a bit stressed out, but when I had a moment to write, this is what needed to be written. So that's what I wrote. Still working on my books.... Focus is key :)
Without further explanation, the story begins as such:
Once upon a time, a small girl grew up slowly in a World all her own. The world that everyone else assured her was real, was so full of vanishing shadows she could never tell who was going to be there when she woke up. So she played games with her Imaginary friends who grew and changed, but were always themselves and never left her.
In the real world, people called her something like “mary” or “sally,” possibly even “jane,” but in the other world, she was simply Trowel (She heard her mother say it one day, before she could remember when. It had a nice growly sort of sound to it, but it turned out to be something useful for finding worms, making burrows, building dirt castles, magic making and all kinds of other things). The real world of suzie (or maybe beth) was hardly worth speaking of. There was a mother and a father somewhere in the background, and there were lots of noisy children (brothers and sisters they were called by the grown ups) who came and went with laughter, tears, snot, an occasional nibble, and lots of sticky fingers. There was a big house, plain as a shoe box before you put a diorama in it. There was a lawn with just enough weeds to make chains out of and just enough grass to turn cartwheels on. It was, to Trowel, a very vague sort of place where anything could (and generally did) happen, but the things that happened muddled themselves up so badly you couldn’t tell what they really were.
But in the Other world, stories grow thick as leaves in an enchanted forest. They fall lightly to the ground and begin to unfold as they are picked up by curious hands and held to the ever glowing light of imagining eyes. Here, when you asked a question, someone always answered you in words that you understood. So while the grown ups thought jill-jen-alice was sitting in her favorite tree, Trowel had actually just walked into a train station.
Trowel looked up, and as she looked, she slowly rose onto her tip toes, because the space was so vast she felt she had to fill a little more of it, or she might vanish in largness of it all. It was just like Grand Central Station, but with a little bit more room and a lot more magic. It was underground, just so the riders could feel the wind rush trough underground mazes and do silly things to their hair and cloths. It was well lit so you could see the intricate carvings in the marble walls and admire the bronze and gold inlay on the steam trains that chugged delightfully through an underground world full of diamond mines an and occasional gremlins (most of them had been scared away long ago, but every so often one got lost and lucky passengers would catch a glimpse of shining purple eyes in the dark tunnels).
Trowel was on a mission, the Empress of New York had sent her to this station to meet her friend D, and together they were to go on a quest that they had to win or Everyone in the World might Die. It was a very exciting proposition. Trowel scanned the crowed, filled with women in Victorian clothes, men in top hats, and children in covered in suspenders, bows, petticoats, and patches. The trouble with meeting D places was that he was awfully hard to find. D was different things on different days, so one never knew exactly who he was until he appeared. When Trowel finally felt a tap on her shoulder, she turned around to discover that D was actually Demitri today. He had on a loose white tunic top, baggy pants, and a decidedly Russian cap (I’m not quite sure how Trowel knew it was Russian, but she is better at that kind of thing than I am). He smiled his familiar smile at her, winked first one eye, then the other, and wiggled his shoulders in a burst of excitement.
Without further explanation, the story begins as such:
Once upon a time, a small girl grew up slowly in a World all her own. The world that everyone else assured her was real, was so full of vanishing shadows she could never tell who was going to be there when she woke up. So she played games with her Imaginary friends who grew and changed, but were always themselves and never left her.
In the real world, people called her something like “mary” or “sally,” possibly even “jane,” but in the other world, she was simply Trowel (She heard her mother say it one day, before she could remember when. It had a nice growly sort of sound to it, but it turned out to be something useful for finding worms, making burrows, building dirt castles, magic making and all kinds of other things). The real world of suzie (or maybe beth) was hardly worth speaking of. There was a mother and a father somewhere in the background, and there were lots of noisy children (brothers and sisters they were called by the grown ups) who came and went with laughter, tears, snot, an occasional nibble, and lots of sticky fingers. There was a big house, plain as a shoe box before you put a diorama in it. There was a lawn with just enough weeds to make chains out of and just enough grass to turn cartwheels on. It was, to Trowel, a very vague sort of place where anything could (and generally did) happen, but the things that happened muddled themselves up so badly you couldn’t tell what they really were.
But in the Other world, stories grow thick as leaves in an enchanted forest. They fall lightly to the ground and begin to unfold as they are picked up by curious hands and held to the ever glowing light of imagining eyes. Here, when you asked a question, someone always answered you in words that you understood. So while the grown ups thought jill-jen-alice was sitting in her favorite tree, Trowel had actually just walked into a train station.
Trowel looked up, and as she looked, she slowly rose onto her tip toes, because the space was so vast she felt she had to fill a little more of it, or she might vanish in largness of it all. It was just like Grand Central Station, but with a little bit more room and a lot more magic. It was underground, just so the riders could feel the wind rush trough underground mazes and do silly things to their hair and cloths. It was well lit so you could see the intricate carvings in the marble walls and admire the bronze and gold inlay on the steam trains that chugged delightfully through an underground world full of diamond mines an and occasional gremlins (most of them had been scared away long ago, but every so often one got lost and lucky passengers would catch a glimpse of shining purple eyes in the dark tunnels).
Trowel was on a mission, the Empress of New York had sent her to this station to meet her friend D, and together they were to go on a quest that they had to win or Everyone in the World might Die. It was a very exciting proposition. Trowel scanned the crowed, filled with women in Victorian clothes, men in top hats, and children in covered in suspenders, bows, petticoats, and patches. The trouble with meeting D places was that he was awfully hard to find. D was different things on different days, so one never knew exactly who he was until he appeared. When Trowel finally felt a tap on her shoulder, she turned around to discover that D was actually Demitri today. He had on a loose white tunic top, baggy pants, and a decidedly Russian cap (I’m not quite sure how Trowel knew it was Russian, but she is better at that kind of thing than I am). He smiled his familiar smile at her, winked first one eye, then the other, and wiggled his shoulders in a burst of excitement.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I know what I want
But sometimes, I just can't put it on paper. I've been working on the Guinevere poem for awhile now, but I just haven't been able to make it what I want it to be. However, I like what I have enough that I'll post it here and take a break before having another crack at it. Sometimes, you just need to let things go.
The other poem, Metamorphosis started with the last two lines and turned out rather different than I expected, but still good. It started with an idea I had after reading The Little Prince for the 250 billionth time. You see, I'd identified with so many of the characters on different readings. Sometimes I was the pilot, sometimes I was the fox, sometimes I was the lamp lighter, sometimes I was even the prince. But I was never the rose. Seeing as my name is Rosanne, I've rarely felt particularly rose-like. I liked briar rose, and rose red- both both had an idea of wildness and thorns to them. I never really felt like a sweet or romantic type rose. When my sister was talking about the kind of wedding she envisioned for me, she wanted dozens of roses and crystals and sparkles and faries... not really, but that was the vibe. Me? I always wanted orchids and bright colors and woodsy. She wants the fairytale palace, I guess what I want is the enchanted forest. I love my name, but someties I feel like the least rosey-rose of all time. But about a week ago, I read the little prince again, and I was the rose. I feel weirdly like I've entered a new era of life... but I doubt you'd get that from this poem ;)
Also, just so you know, I'm aware that I sometimes repeate phrases in poems. But I only do that until I put a phrase I like in a poem I think is good enough. The rest of the poems with that prase I probably have an issue with and won't really use for anything if I ever manage to publish (without Extensive re-tooling at any rate).
Guinevere
At my feet you lay the blame
for the breaking of your dream
for your failing hero's hearts
and the loss of Camelot.
Nevermind the hurt, nevermind the pain
of a husband who never comes home
who loves his kingdom, loves his creed
more than the woman he promised to hold.
Foreget the friend who forgot his brother,
the knight who betrayed his king
Laud the skill and laud the honor
Of the man who gave dishonor to me.
Oh, if knights were true and kings were wise
they would tell you I'm not the sole reason
but they remain silent, I take the blame
for their faling heros' hearts
for the loss of Camelot.
Metamorphosis
I've been a tree
grasping the sky
I've been a cloud
swimming in lakes
I've been the wind,
the air in your lungs
I've been the earth
under your feet
I've been the masses
crowding the streets
I've been an island
lost in the foam
I've been the dreams
of the always asleep
I've been the wanderer
waiting on home
but this morning
I woke just a rose.
The other poem, Metamorphosis started with the last two lines and turned out rather different than I expected, but still good. It started with an idea I had after reading The Little Prince for the 250 billionth time. You see, I'd identified with so many of the characters on different readings. Sometimes I was the pilot, sometimes I was the fox, sometimes I was the lamp lighter, sometimes I was even the prince. But I was never the rose. Seeing as my name is Rosanne, I've rarely felt particularly rose-like. I liked briar rose, and rose red- both both had an idea of wildness and thorns to them. I never really felt like a sweet or romantic type rose. When my sister was talking about the kind of wedding she envisioned for me, she wanted dozens of roses and crystals and sparkles and faries... not really, but that was the vibe. Me? I always wanted orchids and bright colors and woodsy. She wants the fairytale palace, I guess what I want is the enchanted forest. I love my name, but someties I feel like the least rosey-rose of all time. But about a week ago, I read the little prince again, and I was the rose. I feel weirdly like I've entered a new era of life... but I doubt you'd get that from this poem ;)
Also, just so you know, I'm aware that I sometimes repeate phrases in poems. But I only do that until I put a phrase I like in a poem I think is good enough. The rest of the poems with that prase I probably have an issue with and won't really use for anything if I ever manage to publish (without Extensive re-tooling at any rate).
Guinevere
At my feet you lay the blame
for the breaking of your dream
for your failing hero's hearts
and the loss of Camelot.
Nevermind the hurt, nevermind the pain
of a husband who never comes home
who loves his kingdom, loves his creed
more than the woman he promised to hold.
Foreget the friend who forgot his brother,
the knight who betrayed his king
Laud the skill and laud the honor
Of the man who gave dishonor to me.
Oh, if knights were true and kings were wise
they would tell you I'm not the sole reason
but they remain silent, I take the blame
for their faling heros' hearts
for the loss of Camelot.
Metamorphosis
I've been a tree
grasping the sky
I've been a cloud
swimming in lakes
I've been the wind,
the air in your lungs
I've been the earth
under your feet
I've been the masses
crowding the streets
I've been an island
lost in the foam
I've been the dreams
of the always asleep
I've been the wanderer
waiting on home
but this morning
I woke just a rose.
Monday, August 22, 2011
What a week!
It's been quite a week. I broke my toe. As a dancer, that breaks my heart. I don't just dance because it's fun, I dance because I need to. Even before I started Lindy hopping (<3) I had to move to music to be happy. When I'm angry, I have to dance. When I'm sad, I have to dance. When I'm happy I have to dance. My movement expresses and releases my emotion in the same way my poetry does, but in a way it is the first, most raw expression. To write good poetry, I have to be in a place where my head is clear enough that I can articulate my emotions and thoughts. I when I dance, I can express things I haven't yet figured out how to say. So, the frustration I have with my broken toe is very hard to express without dancing. Ick.
But my dear friend (who this blog is for) talked me down from my anger and sadness and got me to a place where I could write. Necklace I wrote last week, but never put up. Resigning and Turning Pages were last night's projects. Let me know what you think!
Necklace
I love to watch you holding,
softly as a new father,
the thin gold chain of my life.
I love to watch your eyes,
full of wonder, marveling
at its' shining fragility
lying dwarfed in your hands.
Resigning
I could leave you
one day you may wake up
and as your dreams fade
you will find emptiness-
a dent in the pillow where my head
always rested,
never again.
I could leave you
one afternoon you may call
with absent minded fingers
my worn number
and hear only the sound
of a nameless operator's
pre-recorded platitudes.
I could leave you
one night you may go to bed
and find only chilly
straigtened sheets
to welcome your worn body
and there will be nothing
to hold.
I will leave you
Someday soon you will blink
and I will be gone
leaving, like the gost of lilacs,
a dull sweet ache,
empty as your eyes
when they look at me.
Turning Pages
I count my life in books,
in the pages of old friends
who sit on my shelves
never higher than I can reach
standing tip toed on my desk chair.
I count my life in stories,
in characters I become
and the secrets they whisper
that tell me who I am today,
yesterday and tomorrow.
I count my life in pages
in turning and discovering
in the drawn out moments
of simple scenes rich, always,
with elegant lines of meaning.
I count my life in writing,
in old sentences that fill my heart
or empty it- leaving clarity,
replacing confusion and doubt
left in the wake of evanescent speech.
But my dear friend (who this blog is for) talked me down from my anger and sadness and got me to a place where I could write. Necklace I wrote last week, but never put up. Resigning and Turning Pages were last night's projects. Let me know what you think!
Necklace
I love to watch you holding,
softly as a new father,
the thin gold chain of my life.
I love to watch your eyes,
full of wonder, marveling
at its' shining fragility
lying dwarfed in your hands.
Resigning
I could leave you
one day you may wake up
and as your dreams fade
you will find emptiness-
a dent in the pillow where my head
always rested,
never again.
I could leave you
one afternoon you may call
with absent minded fingers
my worn number
and hear only the sound
of a nameless operator's
pre-recorded platitudes.
I could leave you
one night you may go to bed
and find only chilly
straigtened sheets
to welcome your worn body
and there will be nothing
to hold.
I will leave you
Someday soon you will blink
and I will be gone
leaving, like the gost of lilacs,
a dull sweet ache,
empty as your eyes
when they look at me.
Turning Pages
I count my life in books,
in the pages of old friends
who sit on my shelves
never higher than I can reach
standing tip toed on my desk chair.
I count my life in stories,
in characters I become
and the secrets they whisper
that tell me who I am today,
yesterday and tomorrow.
I count my life in pages
in turning and discovering
in the drawn out moments
of simple scenes rich, always,
with elegant lines of meaning.
I count my life in writing,
in old sentences that fill my heart
or empty it- leaving clarity,
replacing confusion and doubt
left in the wake of evanescent speech.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Procrastinating is good for poeming
More Poems! I got this stuck in my head the other day, and I finally stole a moment to put it on paper:
Sinking Sand
My life is made of sinking sand,
but I intend to float
my open hands are paddles
this empty heart the boat.
Within the limitless lake of dust
I glide, a glinting mote
I've build a mast of stubbornness-
the sail I'll weave of hope
Though I may never find firm land
within this desert remote
I'll keep my soul light and free
for I intend to float.
I've been reading a lot of Sara Teasdale (And I strongly recommend you do the same). She's a poet after my own heart, a lot of her stuff is short, it's rich and often has a twist to it. It doesn't feel didactic or preachy, but it does say something new. I was excited to find that she wrote a lot of poems about April (Being born then, I've always been partial to it) and I started thinking about why she would write so much about that month particularly. I love April, but while it's the first month of spring, it tends to still be chilly and often dreary. You want flowers and sun, but you get mud and rain. The world is starting to wake up, but it isn't dressed yet and it certainly hasn't done it's hair or make up. (Hum... I like that... it may show up somewhere else someday :) So then I wrote this poem (But that sentence may be better than the poem, now it's gonna have an inferiority complex, poor thing ;)
April
April is the beginning
that hasn't yet begun
a promise not yet broken
because it hasn't yet become
It's the question to an answer
that hasn't yet appeared
it's waiting for a wish
we've dreamed of in our tears.
Sinking Sand
My life is made of sinking sand,
but I intend to float
my open hands are paddles
this empty heart the boat.
Within the limitless lake of dust
I glide, a glinting mote
I've build a mast of stubbornness-
the sail I'll weave of hope
Though I may never find firm land
within this desert remote
I'll keep my soul light and free
for I intend to float.
I've been reading a lot of Sara Teasdale (And I strongly recommend you do the same). She's a poet after my own heart, a lot of her stuff is short, it's rich and often has a twist to it. It doesn't feel didactic or preachy, but it does say something new. I was excited to find that she wrote a lot of poems about April (Being born then, I've always been partial to it) and I started thinking about why she would write so much about that month particularly. I love April, but while it's the first month of spring, it tends to still be chilly and often dreary. You want flowers and sun, but you get mud and rain. The world is starting to wake up, but it isn't dressed yet and it certainly hasn't done it's hair or make up. (Hum... I like that... it may show up somewhere else someday :) So then I wrote this poem (But that sentence may be better than the poem, now it's gonna have an inferiority complex, poor thing ;)
April
April is the beginning
that hasn't yet begun
a promise not yet broken
because it hasn't yet become
It's the question to an answer
that hasn't yet appeared
it's waiting for a wish
we've dreamed of in our tears.
Monday, August 1, 2011
I'm trying to really start working on "my novel" which seems like a horribly pretentious thing to say I'm doing. I've always been a bit shy of showing my work, and it seems kind of arrogant to think I have that much to say that anyone else will want to hear. But, I talk A LOT and people still like me, so maybe this is kind of like that ;) Anyway, I think that as an English major, I am doomed to eventually attempt this, so better sooner than later. In consequence, my poetry may slow down (or speed up as I have something bigger to procrastinate on) but, I want to go back and work on some of the poems I talked about but never finished. Like the stuff from the Bach concert. And the feminist one (I really want to see where that ends up). So hopefully August will be full of book writing and poetry.
To start it off, here's last month's poem. The word was miscommunication:
Miscommunication
Between my lips and your ears
words war their way through
a no-mans-land of mines and booby traps
their disfigured bodies, unrecognizable,
whisper through death, caught in their throats,
the lies they’ve learned on the way.
Then I wrote a poem using a list of somebody's 10 most beautiful words in the English language (chimes, dawn, golden, hush, lullaby, luminous, melody, mist, murmuring, tranquil). Pretty words are kind of boring to work with, so it isn't my favorite. Also, they are kind of similar. Boring. But I wrote it because I challenged myself to, and it turned out alright after all:
Poetic
In the golden hush of dawn
before the waking wind
sweeps away the final chimes
of midnight lullabies
the luminous fingers of dawn stroke
languid latitude lines, strumming
the murmuring melody of mist
as it presses itself into the tranquil earth.
Next, a poem using Edward Sheldon's ugliest words in the English language (funeral parlor,galluses, housewife, intelligentsia). Which was the second part of my challange. I figure if you can make a poem out of pretty words, so what? But ugly words, that's something. And I like this one a lot better :)
Prose
He walked, head down, shoulders slouched
into the funeral parlor on the fourteenth of May.
The only thing about his person that did not succumb
to the day's gravity were his pants,
prosaically supported by old, brown galluses.
She was just a housewife, and he was no intelligentsia
but the picture of him, stooping over her
worn and hollow was the most perfect thing
the photographer had ever snapped
(but was not included in the next day's paper
Due to the stunning indiscretion of a Notable socialite).
And life has been really good lately. I'm still getting better, still finding my way towards the happiness I used to find so easily. But I've turned another corner and it's been huge for me. I keep thinking, in a way, that this is it. That I'm finally back, and it feels like that this time too. Partially because, I think, I know I'm not going back to what I was. You can't. Your physical body turns over, new cells replacing the old, so that you can never be literally the person you were, even when you are "all grown up." So instead, I'm finding the things I used to love and putting them together with the lessons I've learned about life and together, it's making life beautiful again. Beautiful in a way that makes me catch my breath at random moments because it just hits me how beautiful that moment is. I'm glad.
But whenever I feel happier, whenever I move a little further on, I miss Angel a little more again. I've been thinking of her a lot this weekend, and some of the memories that felt like they were fading came back, really strong. So I have a weird combination of the sadness of missing her and the gladness that even if it makes me sad, I still have her. But the poem that came out about her today is kind of sad, but it's something I think about. So here that is:
Bereavement
Every death is yours.
The tombstones crumbling
with a hundred years decay
are memorials of your passing.
Obituaries in daily papers mark
Your sweetness, missed.
Even deaths, splashed across
wide screens of make believe
Are yours.
You die with the day at every sun set.
And I love every death for you.
Anyway, Now I should really do some book-work. See you later!
To start it off, here's last month's poem. The word was miscommunication:
Miscommunication
Between my lips and your ears
words war their way through
a no-mans-land of mines and booby traps
their disfigured bodies, unrecognizable,
whisper through death, caught in their throats,
the lies they’ve learned on the way.
Then I wrote a poem using a list of somebody's 10 most beautiful words in the English language (chimes, dawn, golden, hush, lullaby, luminous, melody, mist, murmuring, tranquil). Pretty words are kind of boring to work with, so it isn't my favorite. Also, they are kind of similar. Boring. But I wrote it because I challenged myself to, and it turned out alright after all:
Poetic
In the golden hush of dawn
before the waking wind
sweeps away the final chimes
of midnight lullabies
the luminous fingers of dawn stroke
languid latitude lines, strumming
the murmuring melody of mist
as it presses itself into the tranquil earth.
Next, a poem using Edward Sheldon's ugliest words in the English language (funeral parlor,galluses, housewife, intelligentsia). Which was the second part of my challange. I figure if you can make a poem out of pretty words, so what? But ugly words, that's something. And I like this one a lot better :)
Prose
He walked, head down, shoulders slouched
into the funeral parlor on the fourteenth of May.
The only thing about his person that did not succumb
to the day's gravity were his pants,
prosaically supported by old, brown galluses.
She was just a housewife, and he was no intelligentsia
but the picture of him, stooping over her
worn and hollow was the most perfect thing
the photographer had ever snapped
(but was not included in the next day's paper
Due to the stunning indiscretion of a Notable socialite).
And life has been really good lately. I'm still getting better, still finding my way towards the happiness I used to find so easily. But I've turned another corner and it's been huge for me. I keep thinking, in a way, that this is it. That I'm finally back, and it feels like that this time too. Partially because, I think, I know I'm not going back to what I was. You can't. Your physical body turns over, new cells replacing the old, so that you can never be literally the person you were, even when you are "all grown up." So instead, I'm finding the things I used to love and putting them together with the lessons I've learned about life and together, it's making life beautiful again. Beautiful in a way that makes me catch my breath at random moments because it just hits me how beautiful that moment is. I'm glad.
But whenever I feel happier, whenever I move a little further on, I miss Angel a little more again. I've been thinking of her a lot this weekend, and some of the memories that felt like they were fading came back, really strong. So I have a weird combination of the sadness of missing her and the gladness that even if it makes me sad, I still have her. But the poem that came out about her today is kind of sad, but it's something I think about. So here that is:
Bereavement
Every death is yours.
The tombstones crumbling
with a hundred years decay
are memorials of your passing.
Obituaries in daily papers mark
Your sweetness, missed.
Even deaths, splashed across
wide screens of make believe
Are yours.
You die with the day at every sun set.
And I love every death for you.
Anyway, Now I should really do some book-work. See you later!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
It's not much but it's something....
Gadgets
Glossy gold, platinum, copper, bronze with
elegant lines joining hypnotic curves
silk smooth, mink soft
nothing cheep, nothing gaudy
that's how he likes his girls.
Give him the next
Best thing, right off the assembly line-
they run through his hands
like wine turning to water.
The name's Bond, Stocks and Bonds
Tough as diamonds, hard as
the titanium band on his left hand
grasping high on her thigh.
The latest plaything
To have and to hold,
until the first fingerprint smudges
tarnish the fools gold finish
and the next model winks.
Glossy gold, platinum, copper, bronze with
elegant lines joining hypnotic curves
silk smooth, mink soft
nothing cheep, nothing gaudy
that's how he likes his girls.
Give him the next
Best thing, right off the assembly line-
they run through his hands
like wine turning to water.
The name's Bond, Stocks and Bonds
Tough as diamonds, hard as
the titanium band on his left hand
grasping high on her thigh.
The latest plaything
To have and to hold,
until the first fingerprint smudges
tarnish the fools gold finish
and the next model winks.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Only one today....
But I have lots of inspiration to sort through in the next few days, so we'll see what happens :)
Living
“Life is made of leaving
and we're living for the spaces
between goodbyes.”
I said, as we walked
hand in hand down
streets of broken asphalt.
“Life is made of longing
and we're living on the hope
of maybe, someday.”
I said, as we sat
side by side on
a weather worn bench.
“Life is made of loneliness
and we're living between ghosts and graves,
all our loves are yesterdays'.”
I said, as we looked
eye to eye across
wind weary waves.
“Life is made of losing
and we're living with the knowledge
that we'll misplace our favorites.”
I said, as we curled
cheek to cheek in
shabby sheets and old blankets.
“Life is made of illusions
and we're living in the delusion
that dreams come true.”
I said, as we stood
shoulder to shoulder by
a tree of wilting flowers.
Living
“Life is made of leaving
and we're living for the spaces
between goodbyes.”
I said, as we walked
hand in hand down
streets of broken asphalt.
“Life is made of longing
and we're living on the hope
of maybe, someday.”
I said, as we sat
side by side on
a weather worn bench.
“Life is made of loneliness
and we're living between ghosts and graves,
all our loves are yesterdays'.”
I said, as we looked
eye to eye across
wind weary waves.
“Life is made of losing
and we're living with the knowledge
that we'll misplace our favorites.”
I said, as we curled
cheek to cheek in
shabby sheets and old blankets.
“Life is made of illusions
and we're living in the delusion
that dreams come true.”
I said, as we stood
shoulder to shoulder by
a tree of wilting flowers.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Wishing on the Sun
When I was little, my dad used to take us out to see the stars. When we climbed the Blue Ridge mountain range, we saw the Milky Way spill across the night sky. When we visited relatives in the middle of nowhere NY, we lay in the middle of a small town street and looked for Cassiopeia, Orion, and the dippers. At home, in the heart of suburbia (because, despite rumors to the contrary, it does have one), we watched meteors streak the sky over street lamps and headlights.
We didn’t wish on the stars then. We didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny- just the tooth fairy. We looked at the stars because they were beautiful, because they were the sailor’s constants in the sea of daily uncertainty. People come and go, but the stars stay. People change, but constellations are constants.
I changed. And I started wishing on stars. I still didn’t believe in them, but I wanted to -so I wished. And I changed again. The stars were no longer full of wishes for the future- they were the laughter of a girl who was gone. The stars in the night sky weren’t pinpricks of hope for tomorrow- they were memories of things that would never be again. So I loved them even more than I had before.
I needed more then ever, however, something to wish on. A magic, even if I couldn’t really believe in it, to help me make it through the day. I stopped wishing on Orion’s belt buckle, on the gilded edges of Cassiopeia’s chaise, on the water sparkling on dippers’ rims. I started wishing on the sun.
The star we build our lives around. That numbers our days and counts out the hours. The star who always shines somewhere in the world. The star that, on blinking out, will end our need for wishes anyway.
We didn’t wish on the stars then. We didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny- just the tooth fairy. We looked at the stars because they were beautiful, because they were the sailor’s constants in the sea of daily uncertainty. People come and go, but the stars stay. People change, but constellations are constants.
I changed. And I started wishing on stars. I still didn’t believe in them, but I wanted to -so I wished. And I changed again. The stars were no longer full of wishes for the future- they were the laughter of a girl who was gone. The stars in the night sky weren’t pinpricks of hope for tomorrow- they were memories of things that would never be again. So I loved them even more than I had before.
I needed more then ever, however, something to wish on. A magic, even if I couldn’t really believe in it, to help me make it through the day. I stopped wishing on Orion’s belt buckle, on the gilded edges of Cassiopeia’s chaise, on the water sparkling on dippers’ rims. I started wishing on the sun.
The star we build our lives around. That numbers our days and counts out the hours. The star who always shines somewhere in the world. The star that, on blinking out, will end our need for wishes anyway.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Science, the Big Bang, and God. .... And I'm Not Quite Sure What My Point Is.....
We know all about conservation of mass/energy. We know that there is no such thing as spontaneous generation (and, of course, by know I mean that is the current understanding of Science on this matter. Science, being man's current belief scheme as supported by facts elicited through observation and experimentation. A belief scheme that changes just as much as religion has, as we build upon the ideas and discover the mistakes of the past). So then: some matter, some energy always existed. I call that God. Actually, I just said that because it sounds neat and concise. I desperately want this to be neat and concise, but it is not. So let me start again.
Some matter, some energy has always existed. In order to explain the big bang, some existing force had to act upon some existing matter. The Big Bang theory has never been an explanation of how matter and energy came to be. It assumes the existence of both matter and energy, and extrapolates how they formed the world as we see it today. It is not, in essence anti-theistic because it does not explain the origin of original matter and energy (A point that is not really what I'm talking about, but bears keeping in mind).
Whether approaching the creation of the world from a scientific or deistic point of view, there needs to be an acknowledgment that matter/energy/life do not spontaneously occur. Some force has to act on the appropriate matter in order to create mass/energy/life. I believe this force is a divine being.
Why? Well, firstly-why not? Really, Pascal's Wager people.
Secondly, life experiences. I know! So suggestible, biased, and unscientific. I get it, after all, I am by nature fairly skeptical. I doubt strongly the experiences of others due to emotional and hopeful natures. But I know my life, and I know that the most profound experiences I have had are all linked to God. Scoff, mock, or agree, God has unavoidably put himself into my life's story at several critical times.
Thirdly, and a little more scientifically (However, I think we should all know by now that you can neither prove the existence of a god nor the lack of existence of a god. Nor can we scientifically prove phenomena that there was no witness to. Both sides of the Deist/Atheist debate can only extrapolate the creation of the world, etc. using the evidence we have before us now.) I believe in God because there is something in me, as a human, anthropologically, that wants to. Because humanity as a whole seeks to explain things outside of our frame of reference. Because we, as people, never create a truly new idea. Because the probability of this world being formed by chance are so minute, I struggle to grasp the tiny odds.
If I was trying to explain my belief in God in terms of the humanities, which is, admittedly, the way I am inclined to look at the world, and therefore God, I'd have a whole different set of reasons. But here, I'm trying to explain my belief in the second language of my brain (science, not humanities). I know many people who are scientists, doctors, mathematicians that understand these ideas better than I do, but they don't often choose to use their second language, writing, to explain these things. So this was a stab in the dark, hopefully a workable translation that will get ideas and thoughts started.
PS: I would like to point out that: I really only have one friend who reads this blog regularly, so this is not for you. It's for me and her, and if you want to eavesdrop, go right ahead. I know it's public property out here on the inter-webs. But don't be offended if you don't like this 'cause it isn't for you (And friend, I won't be offended if you don't like this). Also, I know I'm not a scientist. I just am trying to put down what makes sense to me in light of what I know. If anyone reads this and would like to politely point out errors in my understanding, thanks oodles for your tact. I doubt anyone is actually gonna read this who isn't my friend (hi again, friend :) but just in case, I wanted to be clear about the intent of this. Also, If you do actually read this for the poetry and stories and found this random religious dissertation, um... I doubt this will happen very often, so come back soon for more of our regularly scheduled programing. Thanks for reading, and I hope you had fun!
And....
If you are here for the poems, here's one:
Some matter, some energy has always existed. In order to explain the big bang, some existing force had to act upon some existing matter. The Big Bang theory has never been an explanation of how matter and energy came to be. It assumes the existence of both matter and energy, and extrapolates how they formed the world as we see it today. It is not, in essence anti-theistic because it does not explain the origin of original matter and energy (A point that is not really what I'm talking about, but bears keeping in mind).
Whether approaching the creation of the world from a scientific or deistic point of view, there needs to be an acknowledgment that matter/energy/life do not spontaneously occur. Some force has to act on the appropriate matter in order to create mass/energy/life. I believe this force is a divine being.
Why? Well, firstly-why not? Really, Pascal's Wager people.
Secondly, life experiences. I know! So suggestible, biased, and unscientific. I get it, after all, I am by nature fairly skeptical. I doubt strongly the experiences of others due to emotional and hopeful natures. But I know my life, and I know that the most profound experiences I have had are all linked to God. Scoff, mock, or agree, God has unavoidably put himself into my life's story at several critical times.
Thirdly, and a little more scientifically (However, I think we should all know by now that you can neither prove the existence of a god nor the lack of existence of a god. Nor can we scientifically prove phenomena that there was no witness to. Both sides of the Deist/Atheist debate can only extrapolate the creation of the world, etc. using the evidence we have before us now.) I believe in God because there is something in me, as a human, anthropologically, that wants to. Because humanity as a whole seeks to explain things outside of our frame of reference. Because we, as people, never create a truly new idea. Because the probability of this world being formed by chance are so minute, I struggle to grasp the tiny odds.
If I was trying to explain my belief in God in terms of the humanities, which is, admittedly, the way I am inclined to look at the world, and therefore God, I'd have a whole different set of reasons. But here, I'm trying to explain my belief in the second language of my brain (science, not humanities). I know many people who are scientists, doctors, mathematicians that understand these ideas better than I do, but they don't often choose to use their second language, writing, to explain these things. So this was a stab in the dark, hopefully a workable translation that will get ideas and thoughts started.
PS: I would like to point out that: I really only have one friend who reads this blog regularly, so this is not for you. It's for me and her, and if you want to eavesdrop, go right ahead. I know it's public property out here on the inter-webs. But don't be offended if you don't like this 'cause it isn't for you (And friend, I won't be offended if you don't like this). Also, I know I'm not a scientist. I just am trying to put down what makes sense to me in light of what I know. If anyone reads this and would like to politely point out errors in my understanding, thanks oodles for your tact. I doubt anyone is actually gonna read this who isn't my friend (hi again, friend :) but just in case, I wanted to be clear about the intent of this. Also, If you do actually read this for the poetry and stories and found this random religious dissertation, um... I doubt this will happen very often, so come back soon for more of our regularly scheduled programing. Thanks for reading, and I hope you had fun!
And....
If you are here for the poems, here's one:
Angel
Heaven should be
The way earth was, when you were on it
When there was hair, not streets, of gold
When the gates to your soul were the only sapphires
When the daisies fell from your fingertips, sweetly
When your lily skin curved against my body
When milk and honey rolled themselves into words
Trilled from your tongue through lips like love
Heaven will be
The way earth was, when you were on it.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Longer
My theme for this week has been writing longer. I love writing small poetry: haikus, limericks, etc. I love making every word count and giving depth to small ideas, or making a large one as simple as possible. Or, using the least amount of words to paint the most detailed pictures. And that's good. What is bad is that sometimes I think to myself, this poem could be longer, but I'm afraid I'll mess it up, so I'll stop here. Or I'm too lazy to add to a poem that would probably work better longer, and with a more full story. So this week, I tried to write poems with multiple stanzas, continuing ideas that demand more than just a few lines. Let me know what you think!
Also, I did write something between the 5th and now, I just am not ready to put it online. So if you want to read it, Facebook or email me and I'll send it on over :)
My favorite parts (Just FYI): Fourth stanza of Nothing.... stanzas two and four and the ideas of stanza's three and five of Losing.
Nothing Good Can Stay
When February falls frozen
And March trudges on her way
Then die the thrushes,
--nothing good can stay
When April rains, harsh and heavy,
that flowers might bloom in May
Then drown the seedlings
--nothing good can stay
When June brings the desert,
July follows with fiery ray
Then burn the forests
--nothing good can stay
When August sends a shiver-
September turns gold to hay
then death to all the roses
--nothing good can stay
When October skies darken,
November nights steal the day
Then sleep steals from the woodland
--nothing good can stay
When December strikes the death blow
January turns bright eyes away
Then dies the old year
--nothing good can stay.
Losing
I lost you, like the keys to an old house
hurriedly thrust in some coat's pocket,
fallen on the floor, soon buried, forgotten
I lost you, like a handful of loose change
drifting in the ether of grey car seats,
fallen careless from fickle fingers
I lost you, like flowers fading on a table
petals tenuously hanging, wearily awaiting
the inevitable doom of all things picked
I lost you, like the last shard of the moon
slipping slowly into obscurity
on a night of wind and clouds.
I lost you, like the memory of a sunny afternoon
that perfect moment, forgotten by a mind
that would have remembered rain
I lost you, like a long year spent sloppily
on splashy second-rate entertainment,
regretted long before it was over
I lost you, like hours wasted on a dream
wrapped in maybes that would never be yeses
living for hopes that hadn't a prayer
I lost you, like love, asked too many times
for forgiving and forgetting, finally closing the door-
leaving only the sound of its' locking.
Also, I did write something between the 5th and now, I just am not ready to put it online. So if you want to read it, Facebook or email me and I'll send it on over :)
My favorite parts (Just FYI): Fourth stanza of Nothing.... stanzas two and four and the ideas of stanza's three and five of Losing.
Nothing Good Can Stay
When February falls frozen
And March trudges on her way
Then die the thrushes,
--nothing good can stay
When April rains, harsh and heavy,
that flowers might bloom in May
Then drown the seedlings
--nothing good can stay
When June brings the desert,
July follows with fiery ray
Then burn the forests
--nothing good can stay
When August sends a shiver-
September turns gold to hay
then death to all the roses
--nothing good can stay
When October skies darken,
November nights steal the day
Then sleep steals from the woodland
--nothing good can stay
When December strikes the death blow
January turns bright eyes away
Then dies the old year
--nothing good can stay.
Losing
I lost you, like the keys to an old house
hurriedly thrust in some coat's pocket,
fallen on the floor, soon buried, forgotten
I lost you, like a handful of loose change
drifting in the ether of grey car seats,
fallen careless from fickle fingers
I lost you, like flowers fading on a table
petals tenuously hanging, wearily awaiting
the inevitable doom of all things picked
I lost you, like the last shard of the moon
slipping slowly into obscurity
on a night of wind and clouds.
I lost you, like the memory of a sunny afternoon
that perfect moment, forgotten by a mind
that would have remembered rain
I lost you, like a long year spent sloppily
on splashy second-rate entertainment,
regretted long before it was over
I lost you, like hours wasted on a dream
wrapped in maybes that would never be yeses
living for hopes that hadn't a prayer
I lost you, like love, asked too many times
for forgiving and forgetting, finally closing the door-
leaving only the sound of its' locking.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Mythology
I've always loved mythology. The grand scale of the stories, magic and the telling of how the world became what it is. I was thinking about the gods and goddesses awhile ago, and the idea of the modern Greek tragedies stuck in my head. The gods living on, neglected by mortals, impotent. I also thought about Hera, how nobody likes her. But I feel sorry for her, and I wanted her side oft e story. Maybe its' the feminist in me, but when I think about women living in a society where their only power comes from what man they marry and the children they have by him, I can't help but feel sympathy. So, this is the beginning of that concept. I've done a couple of pictures based on this idea, but I decided to switch over to words- because I'll never do the idea justice with my limited artistic talent.
This is kind of a prologue. Hera talking to Atlas about life leading up to the story. I'm not sure what the story is exactly, but I know it involves Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, and Poseidon with Atlas serving as an audience. We'll see how it goes.
Oh! But before that, here's a poem I wrote that made me decide to turn the tragedies from pictures to words:
Star Gazing
I watched
Liquid light fall from dipper's rim
where Orion paused to drink before
his hunt, shining pelts swinging from his belt
Cassiopeia, watched lounging on a throne
glistening, resplendent, with silver inlay.
Sparks flew from Draco's open mouth
and virgins trembled, hair glistening in it's light
as Hercules sword arced, flashing, toward the flames.
Andromeda strums her golden lyre,
awaiting Peruses' return as creatures of the deep
swim swift around her feet.
I lay on the onyx grass and watched
the diamonds dance their epic paths
of tragic glory one soft summer night.
HERA: Greek Tragedies
Atlas, stooped and old: wrinkles sagging, bagging eyes. Atlas the proud and powerful, the world on his shoulders. Once the world was a trap he fell into, but as the years pass, he has turned it into heroism. He holds the world, and he believes that he stands between it and destruction, dashed to pieces on the heaven's floor. But he has been deluded, like all of us. He is unnecessary: the world hangs on the strong string of science, suspended between the earth and the infinite. But no one will tell him this. We remember. So he sits, the world on his shoulders, and the years roll on.
I don't know if anyone else ever visits him. If they too demand an audience from this captive, I have never heard of it. I started coming here years ago, because where else could I go? Cuckolded queen of the gods. Goddess of the family, yes, who can't keep a husband. Queen, above- and removed from -all. By the power I hold over them still. Or perhaps by the bitterness that emanates from my eyes. What will she do next? I hear them whisper. Just loud enough for my ears, daring me to take them on too. Don't they understand? I've seen them do these things too. Proud, insolent, young. That's what we were. With the might of the mountain coursing though our veins. But as they have, I also have aged. I have, and we have, grown wise. Or I have. I hope.
Atlas, like so many times, I have come to talk. But I have not yet found the words so I sit.
I stare at the world on his back. If I were him, I'd just let the earth fall. I would hope there was no chain to hold it after I was gone. I would laugh as the world turned and I would smile over the screams of the countless lovers during the short drop. Then I would pull a broom from the star-shapes and sweep the shattered glass from my parlor floor, throwing it out into the evening and forming a new constellation. That one is earth, that one is there to remind you what happens when you forget.
Atlas, we have been forgotten. But I have been forgotten longest.
This is kind of a prologue. Hera talking to Atlas about life leading up to the story. I'm not sure what the story is exactly, but I know it involves Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, and Poseidon with Atlas serving as an audience. We'll see how it goes.
Oh! But before that, here's a poem I wrote that made me decide to turn the tragedies from pictures to words:
Star Gazing
I watched
Liquid light fall from dipper's rim
where Orion paused to drink before
his hunt, shining pelts swinging from his belt
Cassiopeia, watched lounging on a throne
glistening, resplendent, with silver inlay.
Sparks flew from Draco's open mouth
and virgins trembled, hair glistening in it's light
as Hercules sword arced, flashing, toward the flames.
Andromeda strums her golden lyre,
awaiting Peruses' return as creatures of the deep
swim swift around her feet.
I lay on the onyx grass and watched
the diamonds dance their epic paths
of tragic glory one soft summer night.
HERA: Greek Tragedies
Atlas, stooped and old: wrinkles sagging, bagging eyes. Atlas the proud and powerful, the world on his shoulders. Once the world was a trap he fell into, but as the years pass, he has turned it into heroism. He holds the world, and he believes that he stands between it and destruction, dashed to pieces on the heaven's floor. But he has been deluded, like all of us. He is unnecessary: the world hangs on the strong string of science, suspended between the earth and the infinite. But no one will tell him this. We remember. So he sits, the world on his shoulders, and the years roll on.
I don't know if anyone else ever visits him. If they too demand an audience from this captive, I have never heard of it. I started coming here years ago, because where else could I go? Cuckolded queen of the gods. Goddess of the family, yes, who can't keep a husband. Queen, above- and removed from -all. By the power I hold over them still. Or perhaps by the bitterness that emanates from my eyes. What will she do next? I hear them whisper. Just loud enough for my ears, daring me to take them on too. Don't they understand? I've seen them do these things too. Proud, insolent, young. That's what we were. With the might of the mountain coursing though our veins. But as they have, I also have aged. I have, and we have, grown wise. Or I have. I hope.
Atlas, like so many times, I have come to talk. But I have not yet found the words so I sit.
I stare at the world on his back. If I were him, I'd just let the earth fall. I would hope there was no chain to hold it after I was gone. I would laugh as the world turned and I would smile over the screams of the countless lovers during the short drop. Then I would pull a broom from the star-shapes and sweep the shattered glass from my parlor floor, throwing it out into the evening and forming a new constellation. That one is earth, that one is there to remind you what happens when you forget.
Atlas, we have been forgotten. But I have been forgotten longest.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Salting the Wound
I think that is my theme today. Seriously- my morbidity is showing a lot latley. (Laura, tell Scott sorry ;)
My dad wrote a limerick, and I realized I'd never written a real limerick (just elementary school fake-outs). So I wrote one. And it's kind of awful (in a good way I think). It seems kind of cruel to write limericks about things that can be so painful, but it does twist the knife well. So here it is, in all of its' morbid glory.
Limerick
There once was a girl who never grew
Though her family begged her to
She lay there all day
Just wasting away
In a box the size of a shoe.
(Also, I learned about this:
OEDLIF (The Omnificent English Dictionary In Limerick Form))
And after that poem, my mind got stuck there (you may recognize the first part from 'ugly baby poemlings' ages ago):
Always Asleep
Empty spaces for ghosts to fill-
She left a bassinet, a tiny shoe
The stars may laugh
But angels cry
As I sing this last lullaby
And while I l hum your empty tune-
With your loss fill the room
Mothers remember
Though brothers forget
Our never awakened, always asleep.
Secretary
Little white fingers,
Laced with little white scars,
Trace crisp white knives
All day long
Little white fingers
Wearing little ruby rings
Dream of lemons
All night long
And this one is a little less like the others. I was thinking about how Angel finds her way into almost everything I write (very obviously in many of my recent peices, and even in less obvious places, if you look for her, you'll find her).
Theme
Playfully rolling off of my tongue,
your sounds slip into babbling brooks of ink-
they dance through my dissonance-
as you hum homilies, your elusive echos alliterate
You are my theme
In the spaces between each word,
your breath breaths life into emptiness-
you punctuate my written moments
with your gasps, sighs, and silences.
You are my theme
Similes-metaphors, they are the same
they are you- and you are
daffodil sun, aster moon
my little lost lamb, my words, my life
You are my theme
Have a great weekend :)
My dad wrote a limerick, and I realized I'd never written a real limerick (just elementary school fake-outs). So I wrote one. And it's kind of awful (in a good way I think). It seems kind of cruel to write limericks about things that can be so painful, but it does twist the knife well. So here it is, in all of its' morbid glory.
Limerick
There once was a girl who never grew
Though her family begged her to
She lay there all day
Just wasting away
In a box the size of a shoe.
(Also, I learned about this:
OEDLIF (The Omnificent English Dictionary In Limerick Form))
And after that poem, my mind got stuck there (you may recognize the first part from 'ugly baby poemlings' ages ago):
Always Asleep
Empty spaces for ghosts to fill-
She left a bassinet, a tiny shoe
The stars may laugh
But angels cry
As I sing this last lullaby
And while I l hum your empty tune-
With your loss fill the room
Mothers remember
Though brothers forget
Our never awakened, always asleep.
Secretary
Little white fingers,
Laced with little white scars,
Trace crisp white knives
All day long
Little white fingers
Wearing little ruby rings
Dream of lemons
All night long
And this one is a little less like the others. I was thinking about how Angel finds her way into almost everything I write (very obviously in many of my recent peices, and even in less obvious places, if you look for her, you'll find her).
Theme
Playfully rolling off of my tongue,
your sounds slip into babbling brooks of ink-
they dance through my dissonance-
as you hum homilies, your elusive echos alliterate
You are my theme
In the spaces between each word,
your breath breaths life into emptiness-
you punctuate my written moments
with your gasps, sighs, and silences.
You are my theme
Similes-metaphors, they are the same
they are you- and you are
daffodil sun, aster moon
my little lost lamb, my words, my life
You are my theme
Have a great weekend :)
Monday, March 28, 2011
No more paper cuts
Today, I used a glue stick to seal 150 envelopes because I was sure if I didn't, I would manage to paper cut my tongue.
I also learned that to seal exactly 150 envelopes, one entire glue stick is nessesary.
Oh work, the thrills and chills you give me!
But I got to do this too :)
Almost April
When trees birth leaves in tears of red
when translucent buds lift drooping heads
when streams rise up against their banks
It's almost April again.
As tears of glass turn the earth to clay
as worms weave their way through winter's decay
as cardinals give way to more flittering birds
It's almost April again.
Then wails the wind, chased from the trees
then wake the bears to threaten the bees
then I remember life came, and you went-
It's almost April again.
When your petal eyes closed, dusty lashes locked
as your breath finished giving life to the flowers
then spring became sorrow, birth became death-
it was almost April again.
Rainstorm
Light raining liquid
from saturated clouds of
molten, glowing, gold
Complete
They say we're 'just friends'
with implications of loss
but we are just, friends.
I also learned that to seal exactly 150 envelopes, one entire glue stick is nessesary.
Oh work, the thrills and chills you give me!
But I got to do this too :)
Almost April
When trees birth leaves in tears of red
when translucent buds lift drooping heads
when streams rise up against their banks
It's almost April again.
As tears of glass turn the earth to clay
as worms weave their way through winter's decay
as cardinals give way to more flittering birds
It's almost April again.
Then wails the wind, chased from the trees
then wake the bears to threaten the bees
then I remember life came, and you went-
It's almost April again.
When your petal eyes closed, dusty lashes locked
as your breath finished giving life to the flowers
then spring became sorrow, birth became death-
it was almost April again.
Rainstorm
Light raining liquid
from saturated clouds of
molten, glowing, gold
Complete
They say we're 'just friends'
with implications of loss
but we are just, friends.
Friday, March 25, 2011
A List of Poems
When I'm, filing papers at work or stuffing envelopes, I've been memorizing/re-learning poems. Some of them are classics. Some I learned in middle and high school and had to re-learn. Some are newer favorites. Here's a list of the ones I know so far. Let me know if you have any suggestions :)
1 At a Window Carl Sandburg
2 Somebody Said Anon.
3 A Flower leaves its’ Fragrance Helen Steiner Rice
4 Marc Anthony’s Speech William Shakespeare
5 Rainy Day Robert Frost
6 In a Station of the Metro Ezra Pound
7 Always Marry an April Girl Ogden Nash
8 Further Reflections on Parsley Ogden Nash
9 The Shrimp Ogden Nash
10 Follies Carl Sandburg
11 Sonnet 30 William Shakespeare
12 I Carry Your Heart e e cummings
13 Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening Robert Frost
14 in time of daffodils e e cummings
15 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou
16 Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) Nikki Giovanni
17 Thursday Edna St. Vincent Millay
18 Song Thomas Lovell Beddoes
19 Crossing the Bar Alfred Lord Tennyson
20 A Dream Deferred Langston Hughes
21 Perhaps Not to Be is to Be Without Your Being Pablo Neruda
22 Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair Langston Hughes
23 The Road Less Traveled Robert Frost
24 The Tyger William Blake
25 Hope is the thing with feathers Emily Dickinson
26 Dessert Places Robert Frost
27 One Art Elizabeth Bishop
28 True Stories Margret Atwood
Now that you've seen this and my writting, you probably have a good idea of how much nothing I do at work some days...
;)
1 At a Window Carl Sandburg
2 Somebody Said Anon.
3 A Flower leaves its’ Fragrance Helen Steiner Rice
4 Marc Anthony’s Speech William Shakespeare
5 Rainy Day Robert Frost
6 In a Station of the Metro Ezra Pound
7 Always Marry an April Girl Ogden Nash
8 Further Reflections on Parsley Ogden Nash
9 The Shrimp Ogden Nash
10 Follies Carl Sandburg
11 Sonnet 30 William Shakespeare
12 I Carry Your Heart e e cummings
13 Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening Robert Frost
14 in time of daffodils e e cummings
15 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou
16 Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) Nikki Giovanni
17 Thursday Edna St. Vincent Millay
18 Song Thomas Lovell Beddoes
19 Crossing the Bar Alfred Lord Tennyson
20 A Dream Deferred Langston Hughes
21 Perhaps Not to Be is to Be Without Your Being Pablo Neruda
22 Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair Langston Hughes
23 The Road Less Traveled Robert Frost
24 The Tyger William Blake
25 Hope is the thing with feathers Emily Dickinson
26 Dessert Places Robert Frost
27 One Art Elizabeth Bishop
28 True Stories Margret Atwood
Now that you've seen this and my writting, you probably have a good idea of how much nothing I do at work some days...
;)
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Summer and Rain
Last week, it felt like spring. Now the weather is chilly again, and I just want warm evenings and flowers. So since I can't have them. I'm writing them.
In addition, I've been working on a story for my book. I'm not sure what I think of it right now. I've complained about Charles Dickens and his habit of over-description (though some of his descriptions are the best parts of his books. I'll never forget "her nose was sharper than an autumn wind.") and I feel like I may be doing the very thing I've complained about. Then again, if Dickens did it, maybe I can get away with it too. Let me know what you think. My comments have been pretty lonely lately...
B minor, sustained
Pink petals fall soft
brushing lightly shoulders and lips,
drifting laughter floats through liquid light-
captured in a net of golden pollen,
resting on perfumed air full of
chirping crickets and sparkling fireflies
singing for you, and me, and the night.
Moment
When you hold my hand
Gold of dusk, Navy of dawn
meet between fingers
Change and Coffee
I love watching storms creep up on they city. Grey walls and grey towers meet grey skies with a bang that releases the deluge. Sheer sheets of grey fill streets and dull the usually vibrant colors that permeate Baltimore on its' smoggy, sunny days.
However, standing on a city street at that moment is an entirely different experience. I could smell the stench of mold and mildew that saturates the harbor air when the humidity rises, even above it's usual mugginess. The dew point feels like it is literally about to be reached, and spontaneous droplets may appear over the cars, street signs, and people.
Fumbling through my purse, in search of change I hoped the rain would hold off long enough for me to make it to my destination. I knew I had scads of change, but when you're looking for change in a hurry, you will never find any. Engrossed in my desperate search, I didn't notice him until he spoke to me. And it was only the years of experience with brothers sneaking up on me that kept me from jumping out of my skin when he asked from beside me "Looking for change, miss?"
I looked up and laughed, my default response when I'm not sure quite what's going on. "Yes I am! The sky is about to fall on my head, and I would like to avoid that if at all possible!"
He chuckled, and I took a moment to assess the situation. He was short, tight curls of black and grey rose from his wrinkled head. His jovial grin was missing several teeth and of the few that remained, most were dull metallics. His old eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, almost as much as his too big clothes crinkled over his too thin body. Despite the signs of wear and disrepair, the prominent feeling he exuded was joy.
If I actually had change, I would offer it to this guy. He's clearly about to get rained on, and he's still smiling. Shoot! I need to find some change, pay for parking, and get inside before it starts raining- I'm not sure I"ll keep smiling if I get soaked today! Ugh, but I'm going to feel bad getting my coffee after NOT giving this guy some change. And now I feel kind of bad for being mad that this guy.... Okay, stop. You only have a credit card, and a little bit of change SOMEWHERE. And it doesn't matter. This guy is not going to hate you for life if you don't give him a dollar. Oh! And maybe I can get cash back at the coffee shop and find him later. Okay, change, change, change...
I resume digging through my purse, making small talk about how I would loose my head if it wasn't attached, you never find things when you look for them, and if you do it's always the last spot- because if you kept looking, that would just be silly. Cliches fall from my lips easily and I honestly like this guy who smiles and chuckles under skies that don't threaten, but promise a chilly and wet end to the day.
Finally, I look at the sky and groan- "I'm gonna get wet, aren't I?"
He laughs, reaches a hand in his dingy pocket "I got this" he smiles
"No," I laugh, "I have change somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it!"
"No, I got this one." He says smiling but firm and begins to feed my meter.
My first impulse is to argue. I'm here for coffee, on a whim. He's here because he doesn't have anywhere else. I'm going to leave and get warm cloths, a nice bed. I don't know his exact situation, but a change of cloths seems as unlikely as a comfortable bed. But I look at him, still smiling warmly, nodding at passers by. He has a sort of dignity in this moment, and I need to let go of my pride, because it's clearly me, not him that has an issue with this.
"Okay, I guess you have more change than I do right now! Thanks for the help!"
"Not a problem, now get inside before you get rained on!" We laugh, together, in a busy street of people passing each other by. Then join the masses, going our inevitable separate ways.
I make it to the coffee shop, just ahead of the downpour.
In addition, I've been working on a story for my book. I'm not sure what I think of it right now. I've complained about Charles Dickens and his habit of over-description (though some of his descriptions are the best parts of his books. I'll never forget "her nose was sharper than an autumn wind.") and I feel like I may be doing the very thing I've complained about. Then again, if Dickens did it, maybe I can get away with it too. Let me know what you think. My comments have been pretty lonely lately...
B minor, sustained
Pink petals fall soft
brushing lightly shoulders and lips,
drifting laughter floats through liquid light-
captured in a net of golden pollen,
resting on perfumed air full of
chirping crickets and sparkling fireflies
singing for you, and me, and the night.
Moment
When you hold my hand
Gold of dusk, Navy of dawn
meet between fingers
Change and Coffee
I love watching storms creep up on they city. Grey walls and grey towers meet grey skies with a bang that releases the deluge. Sheer sheets of grey fill streets and dull the usually vibrant colors that permeate Baltimore on its' smoggy, sunny days.
However, standing on a city street at that moment is an entirely different experience. I could smell the stench of mold and mildew that saturates the harbor air when the humidity rises, even above it's usual mugginess. The dew point feels like it is literally about to be reached, and spontaneous droplets may appear over the cars, street signs, and people.
Fumbling through my purse, in search of change I hoped the rain would hold off long enough for me to make it to my destination. I knew I had scads of change, but when you're looking for change in a hurry, you will never find any. Engrossed in my desperate search, I didn't notice him until he spoke to me. And it was only the years of experience with brothers sneaking up on me that kept me from jumping out of my skin when he asked from beside me "Looking for change, miss?"
I looked up and laughed, my default response when I'm not sure quite what's going on. "Yes I am! The sky is about to fall on my head, and I would like to avoid that if at all possible!"
He chuckled, and I took a moment to assess the situation. He was short, tight curls of black and grey rose from his wrinkled head. His jovial grin was missing several teeth and of the few that remained, most were dull metallics. His old eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, almost as much as his too big clothes crinkled over his too thin body. Despite the signs of wear and disrepair, the prominent feeling he exuded was joy.
If I actually had change, I would offer it to this guy. He's clearly about to get rained on, and he's still smiling. Shoot! I need to find some change, pay for parking, and get inside before it starts raining- I'm not sure I"ll keep smiling if I get soaked today! Ugh, but I'm going to feel bad getting my coffee after NOT giving this guy some change. And now I feel kind of bad for being mad that this guy.... Okay, stop. You only have a credit card, and a little bit of change SOMEWHERE. And it doesn't matter. This guy is not going to hate you for life if you don't give him a dollar. Oh! And maybe I can get cash back at the coffee shop and find him later. Okay, change, change, change...
I resume digging through my purse, making small talk about how I would loose my head if it wasn't attached, you never find things when you look for them, and if you do it's always the last spot- because if you kept looking, that would just be silly. Cliches fall from my lips easily and I honestly like this guy who smiles and chuckles under skies that don't threaten, but promise a chilly and wet end to the day.
Finally, I look at the sky and groan- "I'm gonna get wet, aren't I?"
He laughs, reaches a hand in his dingy pocket "I got this" he smiles
"No," I laugh, "I have change somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it!"
"No, I got this one." He says smiling but firm and begins to feed my meter.
My first impulse is to argue. I'm here for coffee, on a whim. He's here because he doesn't have anywhere else. I'm going to leave and get warm cloths, a nice bed. I don't know his exact situation, but a change of cloths seems as unlikely as a comfortable bed. But I look at him, still smiling warmly, nodding at passers by. He has a sort of dignity in this moment, and I need to let go of my pride, because it's clearly me, not him that has an issue with this.
"Okay, I guess you have more change than I do right now! Thanks for the help!"
"Not a problem, now get inside before you get rained on!" We laugh, together, in a busy street of people passing each other by. Then join the masses, going our inevitable separate ways.
I make it to the coffee shop, just ahead of the downpour.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Villanelles are Villainous.. >:(
So far, two of these are my least favorites (lately at any rate), they aren't my normal style and they don't feel as much like me. BUT, I've been working on control and being able to write better within standard frameworks. So more Frost than cummings- more Tennyson than Atwood. One has just a hint of structure, the other is so structured I could hardly stand it. But I did. For the sake of growth and not just writing one way because that comes most easily to me. Variety! However, the Villanelle nearly killed me- its' iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme is:
A1/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1/A2
So you have to really wrestle with words to force them into the framework. Or at least that's how I feel :(
I may work on a sonnet next week- or just right whatever I want. We'll see how I feel and how much time I have.
Also, you may notice that the two seashell poems are really similar. That was a) to see how form affected what I write and b) because the villanelle started as an idea from something I got for my moms birthday, but the finish product was not something she would super enjoy. So yes, I know they are super similar. Also, I spent so much time on that Villanelle, I wanted to get a little more out of all that brain teasing.
I do like Lemon, however. That was less about structure, and more about a challange. My dad challanged me to a write off. We both had to write an 'Ode to a Lemon,' inspired by the poem by Pablo Neruda. I've included both my poem, and the original. So enjoy! Have a great week:)
Seashell Villanelle
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Echoes of music and rhythms of wave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
She was the sea, but all tides disappear
Even gold sun the moon's call can not stave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Soul in body, sound in shelly veneer
This fragile vessel her memories save
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
From happier pasts, sounds slowly appear
Cities of memories, coral enclave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Voices singing to the tune of a tear
Listen still after I’m gone to the grave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Ocean’s ghost in a shell- echoes, my dear
Remembrance held in trivial cave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Sea Shell Memories
Singing sweet secrets of coral enclaves,
Winding through opalescent tunnels-
The sounding of sea, the whip of the wind
Old waves crash in whispering caves
Dancing through the corridors of my mind
Feet beet a cadence, laughter ringing chimes
Like the tune that turns inside my head
Old whispers of you in remembrance unwind
And even when we are apart I'll hear
Echos of you on empty paths-
Heart beats that create
Your song in a shell, held close to my ear.
Lemon
Pablo Neruda
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
A1/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1
A/B/A2
A/B/A1/A2
So you have to really wrestle with words to force them into the framework. Or at least that's how I feel :(
I may work on a sonnet next week- or just right whatever I want. We'll see how I feel and how much time I have.
Also, you may notice that the two seashell poems are really similar. That was a) to see how form affected what I write and b) because the villanelle started as an idea from something I got for my moms birthday, but the finish product was not something she would super enjoy. So yes, I know they are super similar. Also, I spent so much time on that Villanelle, I wanted to get a little more out of all that brain teasing.
I do like Lemon, however. That was less about structure, and more about a challange. My dad challanged me to a write off. We both had to write an 'Ode to a Lemon,' inspired by the poem by Pablo Neruda. I've included both my poem, and the original. So enjoy! Have a great week:)
Seashell Villanelle
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Echoes of music and rhythms of wave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
She was the sea, but all tides disappear
Even gold sun the moon's call can not stave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Soul in body, sound in shelly veneer
This fragile vessel her memories save
My song in a shell, held close to your ear.
From happier pasts, sounds slowly appear
Cities of memories, coral enclave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
Voices singing to the tune of a tear
Listen still after I’m gone to the grave
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Ocean’s ghost in a shell- echoes, my dear
Remembrance held in trivial cave
And she said: when we are apart you'll hear
My song in a shell, held close to your ear
Sea Shell Memories
Singing sweet secrets of coral enclaves,
Winding through opalescent tunnels-
The sounding of sea, the whip of the wind
Old waves crash in whispering caves
Dancing through the corridors of my mind
Feet beet a cadence, laughter ringing chimes
Like the tune that turns inside my head
Old whispers of you in remembrance unwind
And even when we are apart I'll hear
Echos of you on empty paths-
Heart beats that create
Your song in a shell, held close to my ear.
Lemon
between the seas of orange and green
under the glare of flourescent sun
summer sits yellow on moldering shelves
pinching cheeks and twisting tongues
refreshing tang of floridian trees
summer slips slow through parched lips
sliced and diced; squeezed and parted
sprig of mint and dash of gin
summer floats soft on liquid skies
cleaning counters, polishing chairs
astringent perfume stings my hands
summer smells heavy in the hot air
between the dunes of sandy white
under the glow of kitchen sunlight
summer sits in the palm of my hand.
Ode to a Lemon
Pablo Neruda
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Paper Cuts and Poetry
Here's what I did today.
Oh, and I got more paper cuts. Perhaps that's why these poems aren't in a shiny mood. But I am!
I think my favorite to day is park fountain. Hope is a concept I've played with for awhile, I like this approach, but I want to change up some words to make it better.
Double Exposure
Ghosts pose-
what is overlaying what could have been
filling, pale and transparent
every moment.
Ghosts of those who were-
and are
but are no longer who
they were.
Ghosts, filling
negative spaces
blurring the solid faces
until it is impossible to see.
Ghosts- I know enough
of letting go-am not interested
in grasping at these illusions
resting in my hands.
Ghosts of film and memory,
developed in the dark room of my mind
I will take you out into the light,
let the sun bleach you bare.
Hope
Hope lies
In the eyes of white trimmed brides
In the smiles of sleeping children
In the stomachs of mothers to be
Hope lies
In the eyes of the too soon expiring
In the smiles of the slowly starving
In the stomachs of mothers, miscarried
Yes, sometimes hope lies
Park Fountain
words
fall from your lips
like water from a fountain
indiscriminately flowing
looping through, recycled
refilled by infrequent rain
as evaporation and loss
leave room for a little more
water,
flowing out of the mouths of fountains
as we walk in the park.
Snake oil sales man
the carefully crafted smile you wear
is as well made as the briefcase in your hand
(how many of your clients know that it is a sham)
the tidal wave of familiarity you ride
fills the room like the cologne you wear
(you never say: a little goes a long way, quality over quantity)
"let me start off by saying, I'm not like the others"
even your navy suit is just a little different
(connotations and denotations are very important with words)
You won't leave empty handed, your words run on
I hand you a business card and walk you to the door
(then back to work, stopping only to wash the oil from my hands)
Oh, and I got more paper cuts. Perhaps that's why these poems aren't in a shiny mood. But I am!
I think my favorite to day is park fountain. Hope is a concept I've played with for awhile, I like this approach, but I want to change up some words to make it better.
Double Exposure
Ghosts pose-
what is overlaying what could have been
filling, pale and transparent
every moment.
Ghosts of those who were-
and are
but are no longer who
they were.
Ghosts, filling
negative spaces
blurring the solid faces
until it is impossible to see.
Ghosts- I know enough
of letting go-am not interested
in grasping at these illusions
resting in my hands.
Ghosts of film and memory,
developed in the dark room of my mind
I will take you out into the light,
let the sun bleach you bare.
Hope
Hope lies
In the eyes of white trimmed brides
In the smiles of sleeping children
In the stomachs of mothers to be
Hope lies
In the eyes of the too soon expiring
In the smiles of the slowly starving
In the stomachs of mothers, miscarried
Yes, sometimes hope lies
Park Fountain
words
fall from your lips
like water from a fountain
indiscriminately flowing
looping through, recycled
refilled by infrequent rain
as evaporation and loss
leave room for a little more
water,
flowing out of the mouths of fountains
as we walk in the park.
Snake oil sales man
the carefully crafted smile you wear
is as well made as the briefcase in your hand
(how many of your clients know that it is a sham)
the tidal wave of familiarity you ride
fills the room like the cologne you wear
(you never say: a little goes a long way, quality over quantity)
"let me start off by saying, I'm not like the others"
even your navy suit is just a little different
(connotations and denotations are very important with words)
You won't leave empty handed, your words run on
I hand you a business card and walk you to the door
(then back to work, stopping only to wash the oil from my hands)
Monday, March 14, 2011
Worst part of writing blog posts?
The titles.
Empty
Incandescent
The marvelous vanity of soap bubbles
Opalescent, filled with light and the breath
Silvers flickering over rainbowed sheen
Glowing with a borrowed light
Wafting sweetly in the breeze
Worlds of water and of soap
Ephemeral as our own.
Creation
Galaxies,
caught in the branches of trees
preform the dance of fireflies
falling in love
creating new stars
above my head.
How to tell you
Words I speak to you
float softly in the air and
dissipate like scent.
Words I write to you
sink deep, ink into paper
and live forever.
Meaty
Words, written a world ago
proclaiming deep human truth
are marinate over the years,
picking up flavors from--
the empires and the royals
the communists and the anarchists
the peace-lovers and the warriors
the believers and the atheists
the rock n' rollers and the classicists
the minorities and the masses--
And the words become something more
than they were written to be.
I really don't think the last title works,so that'll change before long....
Empty
Incandescent
The marvelous vanity of soap bubbles
Opalescent, filled with light and the breath
Silvers flickering over rainbowed sheen
Glowing with a borrowed light
Wafting sweetly in the breeze
Worlds of water and of soap
Ephemeral as our own.
Creation
Galaxies,
caught in the branches of trees
preform the dance of fireflies
falling in love
creating new stars
above my head.
How to tell you
Words I speak to you
float softly in the air and
dissipate like scent.
Words I write to you
sink deep, ink into paper
and live forever.
Meaty
Words, written a world ago
proclaiming deep human truth
are marinate over the years,
picking up flavors from--
the empires and the royals
the communists and the anarchists
the peace-lovers and the warriors
the believers and the atheists
the rock n' rollers and the classicists
the minorities and the masses--
And the words become something more
than they were written to be.
I really don't think the last title works,so that'll change before long....
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Back already... because this is what I do at work.
SO, the upside to a currently boring (hopefully to be improved) job is that I have plenty of time to spend doing things like memorizing poetry and writing. How much time you ask... enough to memorize or relearn more than 10 poems and write 5 new poems. I liked the last ones I posted better, but I like these ones pretty awesomely too. So here they are:
World Apart
I do not reach for you
when I wake in a twisted field of cotton, hands searching for the light
I do not look for you
as the tears warm my eyes, oceanic rain watering the pallid plains of my face
I do not call you
while my earth quakes and I gasp for air as the ground disappears
I do not need to
You simply are-
rising through my apocalypse,
refusing displacement by
the insubstantial cataclysm
Your memory alone, enough
to restore my world.
Counting
To find you
I have folded the pages of a thousand paper cranes
I have broken the hearts of three hundred fortune cookies
I have snatched from the wind one hundred will-o-wisp wishes
I have searched the sky for the burning trails of fifty falling stars
I have pulled from the ground forty four leaf clovers
I have blown candles from twenty-four birthday cakes
And I am still counting....
World Apart
I do not reach for you
when I wake in a twisted field of cotton, hands searching for the light
I do not look for you
as the tears warm my eyes, oceanic rain watering the pallid plains of my face
I do not call you
while my earth quakes and I gasp for air as the ground disappears
I do not need to
You simply are-
rising through my apocalypse,
refusing displacement by
the insubstantial cataclysm
Your memory alone, enough
to restore my world.
Counting
To find you
I have folded the pages of a thousand paper cranes
I have broken the hearts of three hundred fortune cookies
I have snatched from the wind one hundred will-o-wisp wishes
I have searched the sky for the burning trails of fifty falling stars
I have pulled from the ground forty four leaf clovers
I have blown candles from twenty-four birthday cakes
And I am still counting....
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