You know, someone told me today that 80% of what people say is miscellaneous rambling. I would have to agree with this stat.
Peace, love, and Leviathan (more on that laters!),
Miss Rex
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
No Teabaggin'
This here's my Silversteinian request that tea bags be put in their proper place in the apartment. Yes, I have found them in all of the places named in the poem. Except the trash. In all fairness, they might appear there on occasion; I would not know, for I do not root through our trash. That's Garby's job. Garby is the imaginary dog Mnomanoms and I plan to adopt to be our garbage disposal, since at present there is no standard operating procedure for compostable materials....
You know, someone told me today that 80% of what people say is miscellaneous rambling. I would have to agree with this stat.
Peace, love, and Leviathan (more on that laters!),
Miss Rex
You know, someone told me today that 80% of what people say is miscellaneous rambling. I would have to agree with this stat.
Peace, love, and Leviathan (more on that laters!),
Miss Rex
Out of the blue poetry
I've been writing some poetry lately. I dunno where it's coming from because I'm not trying to write poems; they just keep appearing in my notebooks. This blog is the closest thing I have to a workshop right now, so help me out. These are rough drafts. If you don't like them, rip them apart, just tell me why. And if you think they're decent, great, but again, tell me why.
Jet Stream
7/22/10
It was a subtle change,
but the daylight looks so strange today.
The window gleams with golden pane.
The wheat fields bow with golden waves.
The sky is such a crystal blue
my godless eyes might pierce it through.
You sly trick mirror, you fox-begotten shroud!
What happened to my heart-shaped cloud?
My ice lamps sputtered and died in your jet stream.
You rained them down soft, then harder—
like static on an old TV,
shook out and hung to dry across your harbor.
------------------------------------------
The World Is Too Sharp Through A Glass
7/17/10
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no slanting, no spin: it lets the bright
and ugly in
just the same.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no blur, no spin; washing out the whites
is sure to wash the scarlet in.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
The light cuts through the curve, a saber
to the eye,
jousting with the colors, fencing with
the lines.
Whiskey-wash your thoughts down,
dull your head.
Leave the lenses on the stand beside your bed.
-----------------------------
In particular I've been struggling with the line breaks for both of these. I resist end-rhyming, but Jet Stream seemed awkward without that structure, yet somehow seems awkward with it as well. And the breaks in The World Is Too Sharp, I don't know, just seemed too arbitrary to justify. Thoughts?
Peace, love and H2O,
Miss Rex
Jet Stream
7/22/10
It was a subtle change,
but the daylight looks so strange today.
The window gleams with golden pane.
The wheat fields bow with golden waves.
The sky is such a crystal blue
my godless eyes might pierce it through.
You sly trick mirror, you fox-begotten shroud!
What happened to my heart-shaped cloud?
My ice lamps sputtered and died in your jet stream.
You rained them down soft, then harder—
like static on an old TV,
shook out and hung to dry across your harbor.
------------------------------------------
The World Is Too Sharp Through A Glass
7/17/10
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no slanting, no spin: it lets the bright
and ugly in
just the same.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
There’s no blur, no spin; washing out the whites
is sure to wash the scarlet in.
The world is too sharp through a glass.
The light cuts through the curve, a saber
to the eye,
jousting with the colors, fencing with
the lines.
Whiskey-wash your thoughts down,
dull your head.
Leave the lenses on the stand beside your bed.
-----------------------------
In particular I've been struggling with the line breaks for both of these. I resist end-rhyming, but Jet Stream seemed awkward without that structure, yet somehow seems awkward with it as well. And the breaks in The World Is Too Sharp, I don't know, just seemed too arbitrary to justify. Thoughts?
Peace, love and H2O,
Miss Rex
Rainbows
I spent most of yesterday reading and I'm done with sociology work through Monday... which means I'm free to worry about astronomy, production, philosophy and photography! Woot! Seriously, this schedule is not working out so great for me. It's so stressful. My jaw cracks sometimes and it gets worse in proportion to my exhaustion and stress levels. Well it's been cracking a lot more frequently and a lot louder lately, and it actually hurts now. When I touch the hinge from the outside of my face, it actually feels tender. It's never been this bad before.
The randomest memory came back to me the other day. When I was younger, I had a little glass prism and I thought it was the best. I could just sit there in my room and turn it all different ways and put it up against different things to see how they would look as rainbows. I miss that, back when refracted light was a tiny miracle, back when I had time to use my imagination, back when I used to read a couple of books a week because I had that kind of time. I mean... I'm still reading at about the same rate, but nothing nearly as interesting as "The Chronicles of Narnia" or "The Emerald City of Oz." I don't know what happened to that prism I used to have - I probably gave it away at some point - but I sort of want it back. Just to remind me that my imagination is bigger than the box I have to live in.
I went over Schneckleface's for a lil heart-to-heart last night and it was really good. We talked a lot about honesty - with other people, with ourselves, and before God. I ended up continuing the conversation with Roomie when I came back and I've finally reached a plan of action for dealing with some things I'd been trying to sweep under the rug. I feel at peace right now, like things are going to be all right very soon. It's a good feeling.
Well, last order of business: I found this poem I wrote last semester when I really hated certain people. If you know about Angry Frodo you'll totally get this poem. Otherwise you'll probably think I'm a homicidal psycho jungle cat (or just a very menstrual individual... which can be true at times XD), but that's okay. You can think that. I'll love you just the same.
So maybe I’m a killer. That’s all right.
Your blood runs colder than mine.
Everything would’ve been okay
If you’d heeded me and run away.
I don’t miss you, off in your little corner of hell.
I don’t miss you cause you brought this on yourself.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
Do your best to forget my name.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save;
just bite the bullet as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
You drove me to this – can’t you see?
How can you ask for my sympathy?
This here’s your little temper fit,
scripted so I’ll feel like shit–
but I’m the one who fired the gun
and I can sleep at night with what I’ve done.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
You drove me to the point of hate.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save,
so drop your empty hands as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
Never thought I’d have to leave.
Never thought I’d have to lie.
Never thought it would come down to a bullet and goodbye.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
I’ll have none of your raining on my happy parade.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save.
Heave a sigh and hide your eyes as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
The randomest memory came back to me the other day. When I was younger, I had a little glass prism and I thought it was the best. I could just sit there in my room and turn it all different ways and put it up against different things to see how they would look as rainbows. I miss that, back when refracted light was a tiny miracle, back when I had time to use my imagination, back when I used to read a couple of books a week because I had that kind of time. I mean... I'm still reading at about the same rate, but nothing nearly as interesting as "The Chronicles of Narnia" or "The Emerald City of Oz." I don't know what happened to that prism I used to have - I probably gave it away at some point - but I sort of want it back. Just to remind me that my imagination is bigger than the box I have to live in.
I went over Schneckleface's for a lil heart-to-heart last night and it was really good. We talked a lot about honesty - with other people, with ourselves, and before God. I ended up continuing the conversation with Roomie when I came back and I've finally reached a plan of action for dealing with some things I'd been trying to sweep under the rug. I feel at peace right now, like things are going to be all right very soon. It's a good feeling.
Well, last order of business: I found this poem I wrote last semester when I really hated certain people. If you know about Angry Frodo you'll totally get this poem. Otherwise you'll probably think I'm a homicidal psycho jungle cat (or just a very menstrual individual... which can be true at times XD), but that's okay. You can think that. I'll love you just the same.
So maybe I’m a killer. That’s all right.
Your blood runs colder than mine.
Everything would’ve been okay
If you’d heeded me and run away.
I don’t miss you, off in your little corner of hell.
I don’t miss you cause you brought this on yourself.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
Do your best to forget my name.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save;
just bite the bullet as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
You drove me to this – can’t you see?
How can you ask for my sympathy?
This here’s your little temper fit,
scripted so I’ll feel like shit–
but I’m the one who fired the gun
and I can sleep at night with what I’ve done.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
You drove me to the point of hate.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save,
so drop your empty hands as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
Never thought I’d have to leave.
Never thought I’d have to lie.
Never thought it would come down to a bullet and goodbye.
Oh no, we are finished with this game.
I’ll have none of your raining on my happy parade.
It’s over and you lost. Don’t talk to me.
No, there’s nothing left for you to save.
Heave a sigh and hide your eyes as I walk away.
Bang, bang! You’re dead. Don’t talk to me.
Patterns in the Sound
Here's a batch of poems that I've either revised since I posted them, or else never posted in the first place. I have to send these in to my prof today, along with a self-critique of sorts. There was no length stipulation and I don't know what I'm supposed to talk about. I have a page so far but it's kind of fluffy. Le sigh. Work just needs to be done NOW. At least I'm home, though, and we're expecting up to a foot of snow! Huzzah! I told Boyfriend we're going to build a fort. Forts are the best and I'm not giving him any choice in the matter.
Please give me feedback on these poems! I am not by any means saying these are final drafts and I am open to suggestions or criticism (as long as it's civilly phrased ^_^).
--------------------------------
Stolen word poem (the assignment was to take the last word of each line in an existing poem and write a new poem using those same words at the ends of my lines. This is from Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends," except the title, which is a spin off Frost's "To Earthward." Ah, that poem gives me chills every time....)
“To Peaceward”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific Ocean begins,
where the surf froths and crashes white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and anchored earthworms take flight,
origami birds borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
But now, with one place still to go,
we speed east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow,
the world setting at our backs. Peaceward we go.
We are carved in the sandstone hearts of those we know.
Home is where the freeway ends.
----------------------------------
Diptych in syllabics (pt. I: an inanimate object speaks. pt. II: a response. The syllable pattern is 5-11-4-8-7.)
I. 08/15/08
Hello. I am here
to let you know someone is thinking of you.
He hopes you’re well.
Phase one of boot camp has been hell
but he says he’ll make it through.
Dear friend, I am here
because someone carved out time to write a few
words on a page
in the midst of a loaded day
because he’s thinking of you.
II. Upon Receiving a Letter
Thank God you’re here at
last! I’ve waited all summer to read his scrawl;
this month’s the third
since I last heard from him. I draw
his word quilt tight ‘round my
frame. When he was here,
we sprinted on the sky ‘til breathless; then we sprawled
in the tall grass. . . .
Unstop my pen. I can’t write past,
“Wish you were here. Yours always.”
------------------------------
Ekphrasis (a poem based on another work of art, in this case, Jim Zingarelli's "Host and Hunger" exhibit. I'm not sure how I feel about the word "dwindling" in the last stanza. Thoughts?)
olivers
There is a posture for
receiving, and they have mastered it – or
it has mastered them, stepped
on their patient fingers, made them slaves.
It has damned them to turn
the millstone, but not
a profit.
Grind the stone; grind.
Grind the stone.
Grind.
Oh, that the sky would rain
manna upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and their twisted, glacial maws!
There is a technique for seeing without
perceiving; we are professionals.
Want is an impatient hackney-carriage driver
that never arrives –
only drives, only
drives.
Oh, that the sky would rain re-
straint upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and our twisted, glacial hearts; that some
one would hear the
everlasting plea &
the dwindling
cry for
more
------------------------------------
17th century imitation and reply (Respond to a poem from the 16th-18th centuries using the same form - number of lines, rhyme scheme, syllables and accents in each line.... This is from Milton's "To the Nightingale.")
To the Wingless Sloth
(the lover and poet, Milton)
O poet! seeking meaning in the fray
of counterclockwise seasons void of thrill,
thou wielder of the mighty, sharpened quill,
thou seekest me when lacking words of prey?
O lover! cause thy hand, bereft, to stay
on my account? Thou hearest not the trills
of evening’s warbling songstress and wait until
a new crescendo swells the faded day?
O squanderer of time, create thy fate!
Dost wish to write? Then take thy pen and try.
Dost wish to love? Then turn thy heart from hate
and fault me not (thou wingless sloth!) who flies;
I nest closer to the earth than thee in wait.
Thy “Muse” and “Love” are smothered by my sky.
----------------------------------
Sacred Poem (anything goes as long as it's about something sacred.)
Abraham Revisited
Here,
in the sprawling shade of tamarisk,
at the fount of shifting sands and stars,
his promise was fulfilled:
A desert rose
spiraled up from the badlands, and I
could only gaze in wonder, laughing –
laughing along
with Sarah and my desert rose.
The sands slipped by,
and after a time God said, “Son,
bring your desert rose to me.”
And I brought him.
He said, “Father, where is the lamb?”
And I, who could not bear to
prune his laughter, eased his mind.
But at the peak we found only our
selves; and the boy saw he
was the lamb, and I saw that
I could not but
stay my hand – and so a
promise was cut
off. God said to
slay my desert rose,
but I could not.
Please give me feedback on these poems! I am not by any means saying these are final drafts and I am open to suggestions or criticism (as long as it's civilly phrased ^_^).
--------------------------------
Stolen word poem (the assignment was to take the last word of each line in an existing poem and write a new poem using those same words at the ends of my lines. This is from Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends," except the title, which is a spin off Frost's "To Earthward." Ah, that poem gives me chills every time....)
“To Peaceward”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific Ocean begins,
where the surf froths and crashes white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and anchored earthworms take flight,
origami birds borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
But now, with one place still to go,
we speed east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow,
the world setting at our backs. Peaceward we go.
We are carved in the sandstone hearts of those we know.
Home is where the freeway ends.
----------------------------------
Diptych in syllabics (pt. I: an inanimate object speaks. pt. II: a response. The syllable pattern is 5-11-4-8-7.)
I. 08/15/08
Hello. I am here
to let you know someone is thinking of you.
He hopes you’re well.
Phase one of boot camp has been hell
but he says he’ll make it through.
Dear friend, I am here
because someone carved out time to write a few
words on a page
in the midst of a loaded day
because he’s thinking of you.
II. Upon Receiving a Letter
Thank God you’re here at
last! I’ve waited all summer to read his scrawl;
this month’s the third
since I last heard from him. I draw
his word quilt tight ‘round my
frame. When he was here,
we sprinted on the sky ‘til breathless; then we sprawled
in the tall grass. . . .
Unstop my pen. I can’t write past,
“Wish you were here. Yours always.”
------------------------------
Ekphrasis (a poem based on another work of art, in this case, Jim Zingarelli's "Host and Hunger" exhibit. I'm not sure how I feel about the word "dwindling" in the last stanza. Thoughts?)
olivers
There is a posture for
receiving, and they have mastered it – or
it has mastered them, stepped
on their patient fingers, made them slaves.
It has damned them to turn
the millstone, but not
a profit.
Grind the stone; grind.
Grind the stone.
Grind.
Oh, that the sky would rain
manna upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and their twisted, glacial maws!
There is a technique for seeing without
perceiving; we are professionals.
Want is an impatient hackney-carriage driver
that never arrives –
only drives, only
drives.
Oh, that the sky would rain re-
straint upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and our twisted, glacial hearts; that some
one would hear the
everlasting plea &
the dwindling
cry for
more
------------------------------------
17th century imitation and reply (Respond to a poem from the 16th-18th centuries using the same form - number of lines, rhyme scheme, syllables and accents in each line.... This is from Milton's "To the Nightingale.")
To the Wingless Sloth
(the lover and poet, Milton)
O poet! seeking meaning in the fray
of counterclockwise seasons void of thrill,
thou wielder of the mighty, sharpened quill,
thou seekest me when lacking words of prey?
O lover! cause thy hand, bereft, to stay
on my account? Thou hearest not the trills
of evening’s warbling songstress and wait until
a new crescendo swells the faded day?
O squanderer of time, create thy fate!
Dost wish to write? Then take thy pen and try.
Dost wish to love? Then turn thy heart from hate
and fault me not (thou wingless sloth!) who flies;
I nest closer to the earth than thee in wait.
Thy “Muse” and “Love” are smothered by my sky.
----------------------------------
Sacred Poem (anything goes as long as it's about something sacred.)
Abraham Revisited
Here,
in the sprawling shade of tamarisk,
at the fount of shifting sands and stars,
his promise was fulfilled:
A desert rose
spiraled up from the badlands, and I
could only gaze in wonder, laughing –
laughing along
with Sarah and my desert rose.
The sands slipped by,
and after a time God said, “Son,
bring your desert rose to me.”
And I brought him.
He said, “Father, where is the lamb?”
And I, who could not bear to
prune his laughter, eased his mind.
But at the peak we found only our
selves; and the boy saw he
was the lamb, and I saw that
I could not but
stay my hand – and so a
promise was cut
off. God said to
slay my desert rose,
but I could not.
Prosetry!
As promised: Random prosetry!! (That's prose/poetry, which is a term I coined after writing this hybrid.) In other news, happy Saturday. Very happy indeed. Good night, moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nothing fits right anymore. My jeans are sagging. My feet are dragging. I’ve got my face to the floor, peering in between the boards, and I spy what you’re thinking.
Now my key won’t fit the lock. I can’t get my sneakers off. I’ve grown longer than my bed. My brain is bigger than my head. The vast white sky overwhelms my tiny space of sadness and I am still trying to tack the right words to the corkboard with a pushpin that’s bigger than I am.
Straining through my teeth, the truth got caught. Can you hold me close enough to read my thoughts? I’m a liar; thank your stars I never hold a job for long. A new day will dawn and maybe this won’t feel so wrong. I’ll tilt my head and throw one back, scrap the Kleenex for a laugh. I’ll recall a well-worn melody that doesn’t taste like coffee beans, a song that doesn’t steal my sleep.
I’m awaiting such a day when my eyes will open to the spangled way the freckles spark across the starry host. ‘Til then I am threadbare, hackneyed, right down to the kernel of me: so this is what it means to be a ghost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
p.s. This needs a title. Ideas?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nothing fits right anymore. My jeans are sagging. My feet are dragging. I’ve got my face to the floor, peering in between the boards, and I spy what you’re thinking.
Now my key won’t fit the lock. I can’t get my sneakers off. I’ve grown longer than my bed. My brain is bigger than my head. The vast white sky overwhelms my tiny space of sadness and I am still trying to tack the right words to the corkboard with a pushpin that’s bigger than I am.
Straining through my teeth, the truth got caught. Can you hold me close enough to read my thoughts? I’m a liar; thank your stars I never hold a job for long. A new day will dawn and maybe this won’t feel so wrong. I’ll tilt my head and throw one back, scrap the Kleenex for a laugh. I’ll recall a well-worn melody that doesn’t taste like coffee beans, a song that doesn’t steal my sleep.
I’m awaiting such a day when my eyes will open to the spangled way the freckles spark across the starry host. ‘Til then I am threadbare, hackneyed, right down to the kernel of me: so this is what it means to be a ghost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
p.s. This needs a title. Ideas?
Sacred (or sacrilegious)
Abraham Revisited
Here,
in the sprawling shade of tamarisk,
at the fount of shifting sands and stars,
his promise was fulfilled:
A desert rose
spiraled up from the badlands, and I
could only gaze in wonder, laughing –
laughing along
with Sarah and my desert rose.
The sands slipped by,
and after a time God said, “Son,
bring your desert rose to me.”
And I brought him.
He said, “Father, where is the lamb?”
And I, who could not bear to
prune his laughter, eased his mind.
But at the peak we found only our
selves; and the boy saw he
was the lamb, and I saw that
I could not but
stay my hand – and so a
promise was cut
off. God said to
slay my desert rose,
but I could not.
---------------------------------
For my poetry class, inspired by that guy who read his translation of the Abraham story at the Seamus Heaney reading. I kept expecting his poem to somehow tell a new and different story, such as one in which Abraham wouldn't sacrifice Isaac, but it never did, and I was disappointed.
This is basically how I would've felt if I'd been in Abraham's shoes.
Here,
in the sprawling shade of tamarisk,
at the fount of shifting sands and stars,
his promise was fulfilled:
A desert rose
spiraled up from the badlands, and I
could only gaze in wonder, laughing –
laughing along
with Sarah and my desert rose.
The sands slipped by,
and after a time God said, “Son,
bring your desert rose to me.”
And I brought him.
He said, “Father, where is the lamb?”
And I, who could not bear to
prune his laughter, eased his mind.
But at the peak we found only our
selves; and the boy saw he
was the lamb, and I saw that
I could not but
stay my hand – and so a
promise was cut
off. God said to
slay my desert rose,
but I could not.
---------------------------------
For my poetry class, inspired by that guy who read his translation of the Abraham story at the Seamus Heaney reading. I kept expecting his poem to somehow tell a new and different story, such as one in which Abraham wouldn't sacrifice Isaac, but it never did, and I was disappointed.
This is basically how I would've felt if I'd been in Abraham's shoes.
Nothing Is So Beautiful
“Nothing is so Beautiful”
(revised 11/05/08)
I’ve never seen so much nothing.
Our high beams perch rest-
lessly on the tombstones of a ghost town,
pale widowmakers poking out of the plains like toothpicks.
The fender feeds on receding white dashes.
We leave no trail.
The stars fall over Flagstaff,
then flare up on the flat horizon where
the burnt moon balances,
an orange on a string.
Nothing is so beautiful.
The dawn broke on the canyon’s rim.
Its yolk trickles into the crannies
and crevices of rock.
On the shore of a yellow sea of daisies,
the rusty smokestacks of Sedona masquerade as turrets
floating in the sky.
Someone slashed the plateau
and it bled into the hills. Wind and water
shape the places we go.
Nothing is so beautiful.
(revised 11/05/08)
I’ve never seen so much nothing.
Our high beams perch rest-
lessly on the tombstones of a ghost town,
pale widowmakers poking out of the plains like toothpicks.
The fender feeds on receding white dashes.
We leave no trail.
The stars fall over Flagstaff,
then flare up on the flat horizon where
the burnt moon balances,
an orange on a string.
Nothing is so beautiful.
The dawn broke on the canyon’s rim.
Its yolk trickles into the crannies
and crevices of rock.
On the shore of a yellow sea of daisies,
the rusty smokestacks of Sedona masquerade as turrets
floating in the sky.
Someone slashed the plateau
and it bled into the hills. Wind and water
shape the places we go.
Nothing is so beautiful.
New poetry: Existentialover
Existentialover
They jumped the gun
and lit the furnace in the woods some
eight weeks ago. The wind lifted paper flames
up to the butter-pat moon and it was
beautiful, watching everything die like that.
And there you were, waiting, ensconced
in the willow branches’ orange cave like you knew
someone was coming while the meteors
diffused overhead.
So is this the end of the world, or do we
finally carry on? Hope is an ever-rising
phoenix: and there I was
to witness the Caesarean section
birth of a thing
that was, perhaps, less than ready
to swallow the cold, hard nitrogen
left over when the fire
burnt out. Well, at least the sun is out, but
it’s awful cold for Halloween.
-------
Please comment! Ask questions, make me think about why I made the choices I did. Ask me about line breaks, word choice, whatever. Oh, and for the sake of argument, the last line was originally repetition of the first line; would it be better if I put that back in? I don't want it to seem like it's about Halloween, so maybe I just shouldn't mention the holiday at all.
They jumped the gun
and lit the furnace in the woods some
eight weeks ago. The wind lifted paper flames
up to the butter-pat moon and it was
beautiful, watching everything die like that.
And there you were, waiting, ensconced
in the willow branches’ orange cave like you knew
someone was coming while the meteors
diffused overhead.
So is this the end of the world, or do we
finally carry on? Hope is an ever-rising
phoenix: and there I was
to witness the Caesarean section
birth of a thing
that was, perhaps, less than ready
to swallow the cold, hard nitrogen
left over when the fire
burnt out. Well, at least the sun is out, but
it’s awful cold for Halloween.
-------
Please comment! Ask questions, make me think about why I made the choices I did. Ask me about line breaks, word choice, whatever. Oh, and for the sake of argument, the last line was originally repetition of the first line; would it be better if I put that back in? I don't want it to seem like it's about Halloween, so maybe I just shouldn't mention the holiday at all.
Left-Overs
A couple of poems I neglected to post when I wrote them.
1: A Cento, which is a conglomerate of lines from other works - poems, novels, movies, anything you can think of to quote is fair game in a cento. See if you can identify the quotes! =D
“Cento on Writing”
The person lives
in this world, in this uncanny
house with the ones and zeros.
We always have been caged.
Writers live
in their imagination with
the falling sky; we are lost
in the Technicolor on the Everglow.
When you write, let the world slip.
Be the axe for the frozen sea within.
The heartless ghost alone’s unhurt, so burn,
like fabulous yellow does on blue.
Tame the stars, riders (or fools).
Make a wish or just take charge.
I dreamt I found a fair of wonders
under the skysigns,
upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Sunsets and silhouette dreams:
There is nothing as lucky,
as easy, as free.
O duty! Shaken by your beauty,
We’re awakening.
In our dreams we can be complete,
but I have miles to go before I sleep.
2. Ekphrasis - a response to another piece of art, such as a painting or sculpture. This one is in response to Zingarelli's Host and Hunger exhibit.
olivers
There is a posture for
receiving, and they have mastered it – or
it has mastered them, stepped
on their patient fingers, made them slaves.
It has damned them to turn
the millstone, but not
a profit.
Grind
the stone. Grind the
stone. Grind the stone.
Oh, that the sky would rain
manna upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and their twisted, gaping maws!
There is a technique for seeing without
perceiving, and
we are professionals.
Want is an impatient hackney-carriage driver
and he never arrives –
only drives,
only drives, only
drives.
Oh, that the sky would rain re-
straint upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and our twisted, gaping hearts; that some
one would hear
the swelling scream and the waxing
plea for more
1: A Cento, which is a conglomerate of lines from other works - poems, novels, movies, anything you can think of to quote is fair game in a cento. See if you can identify the quotes! =D
“Cento on Writing”
The person lives
in this world, in this uncanny
house with the ones and zeros.
We always have been caged.
Writers live
in their imagination with
the falling sky; we are lost
in the Technicolor on the Everglow.
When you write, let the world slip.
Be the axe for the frozen sea within.
The heartless ghost alone’s unhurt, so burn,
like fabulous yellow does on blue.
Tame the stars, riders (or fools).
Make a wish or just take charge.
I dreamt I found a fair of wonders
under the skysigns,
upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Sunsets and silhouette dreams:
There is nothing as lucky,
as easy, as free.
O duty! Shaken by your beauty,
We’re awakening.
In our dreams we can be complete,
but I have miles to go before I sleep.
2. Ekphrasis - a response to another piece of art, such as a painting or sculpture. This one is in response to Zingarelli's Host and Hunger exhibit.
olivers
There is a posture for
receiving, and they have mastered it – or
it has mastered them, stepped
on their patient fingers, made them slaves.
It has damned them to turn
the millstone, but not
a profit.
Grind
the stone. Grind the
stone. Grind the stone.
Oh, that the sky would rain
manna upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and their twisted, gaping maws!
There is a technique for seeing without
perceiving, and
we are professionals.
Want is an impatient hackney-carriage driver
and he never arrives –
only drives,
only drives, only
drives.
Oh, that the sky would rain re-
straint upon gargoyles, warped by want,
and our twisted, gaping hearts; that some
one would hear
the swelling scream and the waxing
plea for more
The Second Peppers Play
I just completed my most awful poetry assignment to date. Stevick gave us a play from like the 12th century, i.e. it's in olde englysh, and we had to translate it into some modern form of speech - such as gangsta-speak, trucker-speak, you get the picture. But that's not all. We had to maintain the same rhyme scheme and the same pattern of accented syllables from the original as well as the same meaning.
Needless to say, I bitterly resented the assignment and was dreading the number of miserable hours I would have to put into writing it. So to make my life suck just a little less, I decided that "The Second Shepherds Play" would become "The Second Peppers Play," and things just got sillier from there.
I think the most frustrating part was actually the fact that Stevick omitted lines, so the pattern of lines and syllables was not regular, nor did the dialogue really make sense. Non Sequitur Award, right here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE SECOND PEPPERS PLAY
Amanda C. Thompson
Cast (in order of appearance):
3rd Pepper: Cap’n Smack
A red pepper who believes himself to be a pirate.
Voice actor: Johnny Depp (Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean).
1st Pepper: Dusty Dogwood
A flamboyant yellow pepper who is generally over-enthusiastic.
Voice actor: Carson Kressley (Host of “How to Look Good Naked”).
2nd Pepper: Billy
A green redneck pepper who drives an old pick-up and shaves with a one-blade razor.
Voice actor: Larry the Cable Guy (Mater, Cars).
Trevor
An emo trowel of ill repute: he is known for stealing seeds from Farmer’s fruits.
Voice actor: Alan Rickman (Marvin, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy).
Script:
CAP’N SMACK: A chantey! Aye.
DUSTY DOGWOOD: Oh! Let me sing the part of tenor!
BILLY: Anyhow, the yodelin’s better.
CAP’N SMACK: Arr, then I’ll sing the mid-line. Weigh anchor!
And-a yo ho ho, me boys!
[They sing a bawdy drinking chorus. Enter TREVOR, who tries to sing along.]
DUSTY DOGWOOD: Oh God, who’s that? His voice sucks.
TREVOR: (aside) These vegetables don’t know my bad luck.
(out loud) I’m the trowel from the shed. I just sit there and rust.
I’m the least of Farmer’s toys.
BILLY: Trevor! Where’d ya go? What’s the word?
CAP’N SMACK: That booty-snatchin’ hoe? You’d best be on yer guard!
TREVOR: I’ll have you know the farmer sent me to the yard –
the guy who sowed your seeds in the garden
last winter.
Fuck you plants! You’re so gumptious,
so high-mindedly captious!
You vitamin-laden, bumptious
boneheads – respect me!
CAP’N SMACK: He’s no bilge-talker. He deserves to be fed to the fish.
TREVOR: Enough, you gawks! Or you’ll be a side dish!
DUSTY DOGWOOD: [Gasps] You wouldn’t dare!
Now drop that silly air
and laissez-faire.
TREVOR: Oh, hey! I didn’t realize – I mean, I thought I knew you!
You’re cool guys.
BILLY: Go cow-tippin’, dude.
F’yer late-night trekkin,
what’ll people reckon?
That you wanna be peckin’
their seeds – like you always do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for the record, can I NOT read this out loud in class...?
Oh and by the way... I have at least one guy willing to lend me a plaid shirt. w00t. I hope it smells as good as my pajamas did that one time.... O_o
Needless to say, I bitterly resented the assignment and was dreading the number of miserable hours I would have to put into writing it. So to make my life suck just a little less, I decided that "The Second Shepherds Play" would become "The Second Peppers Play," and things just got sillier from there.
I think the most frustrating part was actually the fact that Stevick omitted lines, so the pattern of lines and syllables was not regular, nor did the dialogue really make sense. Non Sequitur Award, right here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE SECOND PEPPERS PLAY
Amanda C. Thompson
Cast (in order of appearance):
3rd Pepper: Cap’n Smack
A red pepper who believes himself to be a pirate.
Voice actor: Johnny Depp (Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean).
1st Pepper: Dusty Dogwood
A flamboyant yellow pepper who is generally over-enthusiastic.
Voice actor: Carson Kressley (Host of “How to Look Good Naked”).
2nd Pepper: Billy
A green redneck pepper who drives an old pick-up and shaves with a one-blade razor.
Voice actor: Larry the Cable Guy (Mater, Cars).
Trevor
An emo trowel of ill repute: he is known for stealing seeds from Farmer’s fruits.
Voice actor: Alan Rickman (Marvin, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy).
Script:
CAP’N SMACK: A chantey! Aye.
DUSTY DOGWOOD: Oh! Let me sing the part of tenor!
BILLY: Anyhow, the yodelin’s better.
CAP’N SMACK: Arr, then I’ll sing the mid-line. Weigh anchor!
And-a yo ho ho, me boys!
[They sing a bawdy drinking chorus. Enter TREVOR, who tries to sing along.]
DUSTY DOGWOOD: Oh God, who’s that? His voice sucks.
TREVOR: (aside) These vegetables don’t know my bad luck.
(out loud) I’m the trowel from the shed. I just sit there and rust.
I’m the least of Farmer’s toys.
BILLY: Trevor! Where’d ya go? What’s the word?
CAP’N SMACK: That booty-snatchin’ hoe? You’d best be on yer guard!
TREVOR: I’ll have you know the farmer sent me to the yard –
the guy who sowed your seeds in the garden
last winter.
Fuck you plants! You’re so gumptious,
so high-mindedly captious!
You vitamin-laden, bumptious
boneheads – respect me!
CAP’N SMACK: He’s no bilge-talker. He deserves to be fed to the fish.
TREVOR: Enough, you gawks! Or you’ll be a side dish!
DUSTY DOGWOOD: [Gasps] You wouldn’t dare!
Now drop that silly air
and laissez-faire.
TREVOR: Oh, hey! I didn’t realize – I mean, I thought I knew you!
You’re cool guys.
BILLY: Go cow-tippin’, dude.
F’yer late-night trekkin,
what’ll people reckon?
That you wanna be peckin’
their seeds – like you always do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for the record, can I NOT read this out loud in class...?
Oh and by the way... I have at least one guy willing to lend me a plaid shirt. w00t. I hope it smells as good as my pajamas did that one time.... O_o
Ert+Y76p; 0lu8- what is this???
One of several incoherent poetry-reading assignments of the night:
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
e. e. cummings
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint(o-
aThe):l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;
The flip is this garbage? I get that there's a grasshopper and he's jumping around and stuff. But all I can think is....
"Ert + y76P; 0lu8-what is this?? Did the quadratic formula explode??? I see a Strong Ba- in there, but it's getting eaten. By some... Linux or something."
In fact, I think I shall quote that SBemail in class on Tuesday to see if anyone gets it. How awkward it shall be if no one does.
NEW TAITV EPISODE ON THEACADEMYIS.COM. Caution: it's reeeeeaally fuzzy this week. Also, I'm like 97% sure they were spoofing Wayne's World with the air guitars, wacky lingo, and random exclamations of "EXCELLENT!" and "BOGUS!"
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
e. e. cummings
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint(o-
aThe):l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;
The flip is this garbage? I get that there's a grasshopper and he's jumping around and stuff. But all I can think is....
"Ert + y76P; 0lu8-what is this?? Did the quadratic formula explode??? I see a Strong Ba- in there, but it's getting eaten. By some... Linux or something."
In fact, I think I shall quote that SBemail in class on Tuesday to see if anyone gets it. How awkward it shall be if no one does.
NEW TAITV EPISODE ON THEACADEMYIS.COM. Caution: it's reeeeeaally fuzzy this week. Also, I'm like 97% sure they were spoofing Wayne's World with the air guitars, wacky lingo, and random exclamations of "EXCELLENT!" and "BOGUS!"
A-W-E-S-O-M-E
Gasp! It's been nearly three days since my last post? How can that be?! I mean, aside from the obvious answer that I spent the entirety of yesterday doing all the homework I had to pass in for my nine hours worth of classes today.
Found this in Barrington today; I was sad at first because I didn't see it where we left it, but this is SO much better.
Poetry assignment of the week: Choose a 16th, 17th or 18th century poem and respond or create its negative image using the same stylistic techniques (rhyme scheme, meter). (As an added challenge, I decided to also use a similar voice with a similar vocabulary. Actually, it just felt like the poem couldn't be written any other way. It was a little less of a challenge and a little more of a compulsion. =P)
Original:
To The Nightingale
by John Milton
O Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Reply:
To the Wingless Sloth
(the lover and poet, Milton)
O poet! seeking meaning in the fray
of counterclockwise seasons void of thrill,
thou wielder of the mighty, sharpened quill,
thou seekest me when lacking words of prey?
O lover! cause thy hand, bereft, to stay
on my account? Thou hearest not the trills
of the songstress of the night, and wait until
renewed crescendo swells the faded day?
O squanderer of time, create thy fate!
Dost wish to write? Then take thy pen and try.
Dost wish to love? Then turn thy heart from hate
and fault me not (thou wingless sloth!) who flies;
I nest closer to the earth than thee in wait.
Thy “Muse” and “Love” are smothered by my sky.
On a side note, the new House of Heroes album is flipping AWESOME. Go download it RIGHT NOW. You get a sweet deal off iTunes - 16 songs for ten bucks.
Found this in Barrington today; I was sad at first because I didn't see it where we left it, but this is SO much better.
Poetry assignment of the week: Choose a 16th, 17th or 18th century poem and respond or create its negative image using the same stylistic techniques (rhyme scheme, meter). (As an added challenge, I decided to also use a similar voice with a similar vocabulary. Actually, it just felt like the poem couldn't be written any other way. It was a little less of a challenge and a little more of a compulsion. =P)
Original:
To The Nightingale
by John Milton
O Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Reply:
To the Wingless Sloth
(the lover and poet, Milton)
O poet! seeking meaning in the fray
of counterclockwise seasons void of thrill,
thou wielder of the mighty, sharpened quill,
thou seekest me when lacking words of prey?
O lover! cause thy hand, bereft, to stay
on my account? Thou hearest not the trills
of the songstress of the night, and wait until
renewed crescendo swells the faded day?
O squanderer of time, create thy fate!
Dost wish to write? Then take thy pen and try.
Dost wish to love? Then turn thy heart from hate
and fault me not (thou wingless sloth!) who flies;
I nest closer to the earth than thee in wait.
Thy “Muse” and “Love” are smothered by my sky.
On a side note, the new House of Heroes album is flipping AWESOME. Go download it RIGHT NOW. You get a sweet deal off iTunes - 16 songs for ten bucks.
Sixth Grade Poetry Assignment
While babysitting tonight, it fell to me to help a sixth grader write a poem. I was excited until I saw the outline he was supposed to use. Good grief! Who can be expected to write even halfway decent poetry under such restrictions? Every line said, "I (verb) _fill in the blank_." And the fill-in-the-blank instructions were really, really specific. After I yelled at the assignment, I realized I had probably encouraged the kid not to take it seriously, so I offered to write one of my own. I was amazed: it didn't completely suck. So here it is.
I Am Bored.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I wonder what’s for dessert….
I hear Cobra Starship playing inside my head and
I want to have a dance party.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I pretend that I can fly. Sometimes,
I feel the clouds between my toes and
I touch the moon with my face.
I worry that I won’t be able to come back down, and then
I cry for all the people I left behind down there; but
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I understand the parameters. I just don’t like them.
I say a poet should be free to touch the moon with her face!
I dream of creation beyond the walls of this box.
I try to break free, try to put an end to this over-end-stopping.
I hope the frozen yogurt is vanilla tonight.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm seriously debating whether I should change my novel from first to third person. A lot depends on the main character's emotions, but a good writer should be able to communicate those emotions from either perspective, right? I just don't know. I always imagined it in first person, but maybe that's because I perceived the dreams that inspired it from the point of view of the dreamer, which can't be helped. I guess it comes down to, how much will I lose by putting it in third person? And, do I want to give up the uniqueness of writing a fantasy story in first person? I'm at a loss! D=
I Am Bored.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I wonder what’s for dessert….
I hear Cobra Starship playing inside my head and
I want to have a dance party.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I pretend that I can fly. Sometimes,
I feel the clouds between my toes and
I touch the moon with my face.
I worry that I won’t be able to come back down, and then
I cry for all the people I left behind down there; but
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
I understand the parameters. I just don’t like them.
I say a poet should be free to touch the moon with her face!
I dream of creation beyond the walls of this box.
I try to break free, try to put an end to this over-end-stopping.
I hope the frozen yogurt is vanilla tonight.
I am bored and thinking inside the box right now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm seriously debating whether I should change my novel from first to third person. A lot depends on the main character's emotions, but a good writer should be able to communicate those emotions from either perspective, right? I just don't know. I always imagined it in first person, but maybe that's because I perceived the dreams that inspired it from the point of view of the dreamer, which can't be helped. I guess it comes down to, how much will I lose by putting it in third person? And, do I want to give up the uniqueness of writing a fantasy story in first person? I'm at a loss! D=
Manic Tuesday
Today was my busy day.
Breakfast: went to the mailroom to see if the CD I requested from Philmont two weeks ago had come yet. No dice, so I texted Scott, who said he'd sent it a week and a half ago. GO-CO MAILROOM FAILS.
Principles of Design (9:45-12:45): fire alarm went off, was glad I didn't have my computer in case I would've accidentally broken it again. Contemplated possible blood relation of my classmate to Adam T. Siska. Somehow transformed "random" geometric shapes into a significant expression of my present emotions.
Lunch: half an hour, which was enough to drop off my art supplies in Ferrin, buy a sandwich to go, and check my mail AGAIN. MY CD FINALLY GOT HERE.
Writing for the Media (1:15-2:50): Jo remembered that my name isn't Suzanne (probably because I interviewed her last week.... it would just be plain embarrassing for her to confuse me with someone else after that.)
Poetry (3:00-5:00):
Postcard
Hello. I am here
to let you know that someone is thinking of you.
He hopes you’re well.
Phase one of boot camp has been hell
but he says he’ll make it through.
Hello. I am here
Because someone carved out time to write just a few
words on a page
in the midst of a loaded day
because he’s thinking of you.
Thank God you got here.
I’ve been waiting all summer long to read his scrawl,
this month the third
Since I last heard from him. His words
I draw about me, a shawl.
Last time he was here,
we sprinted on the sky. When we got tired, we sprawled
in the tall grass.
Unstop my pen. I can’t write past,
“Wish you were here. Yours always.”
Dinner: 45 minutes, enough to sit down while I eat dinner AND dessert. Listened to the new Philmont EP on my way to...
Applied Communication (6:45-7:45): discussed our short film, which is probably going to be on synaesthesia. Some of the others talked about using the idea of synaesthesia to generate a narrative. This is fine by me. I'm a story lover. But their idea was about a guy who uses his synaesthesia to rob a bank, which isn't really up my alley. I guess you give and take, but I want to enjoy working on this project and have a product that I like. I guess that's a little idealistic for the real world. Better get used to it.
Trash Club just came by. I missed them. That trek out to the dumpster is so taxing. Not really, but it IS outside this year, which is a bummer.
Breakfast: went to the mailroom to see if the CD I requested from Philmont two weeks ago had come yet. No dice, so I texted Scott, who said he'd sent it a week and a half ago. GO-CO MAILROOM FAILS.
Principles of Design (9:45-12:45): fire alarm went off, was glad I didn't have my computer in case I would've accidentally broken it again. Contemplated possible blood relation of my classmate to Adam T. Siska. Somehow transformed "random" geometric shapes into a significant expression of my present emotions.
Lunch: half an hour, which was enough to drop off my art supplies in Ferrin, buy a sandwich to go, and check my mail AGAIN. MY CD FINALLY GOT HERE.
Writing for the Media (1:15-2:50): Jo remembered that my name isn't Suzanne (probably because I interviewed her last week.... it would just be plain embarrassing for her to confuse me with someone else after that.)
Poetry (3:00-5:00):
Postcard
Hello. I am here
to let you know that someone is thinking of you.
He hopes you’re well.
Phase one of boot camp has been hell
but he says he’ll make it through.
Hello. I am here
Because someone carved out time to write just a few
words on a page
in the midst of a loaded day
because he’s thinking of you.
Thank God you got here.
I’ve been waiting all summer long to read his scrawl,
this month the third
Since I last heard from him. His words
I draw about me, a shawl.
Last time he was here,
we sprinted on the sky. When we got tired, we sprawled
in the tall grass.
Unstop my pen. I can’t write past,
“Wish you were here. Yours always.”
Dinner: 45 minutes, enough to sit down while I eat dinner AND dessert. Listened to the new Philmont EP on my way to...
Applied Communication (6:45-7:45): discussed our short film, which is probably going to be on synaesthesia. Some of the others talked about using the idea of synaesthesia to generate a narrative. This is fine by me. I'm a story lover. But their idea was about a guy who uses his synaesthesia to rob a bank, which isn't really up my alley. I guess you give and take, but I want to enjoy working on this project and have a product that I like. I guess that's a little idealistic for the real world. Better get used to it.
Trash Club just came by. I missed them. That trek out to the dumpster is so taxing. Not really, but it IS outside this year, which is a bummer.
Bridges
“Bridges”
I’ve been jumping off bridges without you,
and it’s just not the same.
I had a dream that you weren’t there. I went
out to find you in the rain.
The trail you left wound up, up and
nowhere. There I saw you, framed
like the pixels and particles you
arrange so lovingly; framed
in the lilies and the leaves and the toadstools,
framed
in a pool of water deep as the sky
and green with tree trunks mid-cartwheel.
There is something better on the underbelly of this
reflection, and I am going to find it.
Raindrops leave their perfectcircle deathnotes,
scars spinning across the perfectmirrorpool.
It can’t be summer all year round.
Soft, sunshine, don’t you make a sound.
I put my face to the dappled mirror, wanting
to see the inverted city’s wooden skyline
But I drown trying to get there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New poem, free verse. It came out way more depressing than I really intended, but as I wrote it I realized that it embodies my feelings on the issue pretty well. Yep, depression. Suckfest.
The first stanza I've had all summer, with no idea how to complete the thought until I was out walking in the rain today (and after I walked to Nebraska by mistake earlier this week).
I don't think I should talk so much about the process because it probably makes the poem less enjoyable, so I'll shut up now. ^_^
I’ve been jumping off bridges without you,
and it’s just not the same.
I had a dream that you weren’t there. I went
out to find you in the rain.
The trail you left wound up, up and
nowhere. There I saw you, framed
like the pixels and particles you
arrange so lovingly; framed
in the lilies and the leaves and the toadstools,
framed
in a pool of water deep as the sky
and green with tree trunks mid-cartwheel.
There is something better on the underbelly of this
reflection, and I am going to find it.
Raindrops leave their perfectcircle deathnotes,
scars spinning across the perfectmirrorpool.
It can’t be summer all year round.
Soft, sunshine, don’t you make a sound.
I put my face to the dappled mirror, wanting
to see the inverted city’s wooden skyline
But I drown trying to get there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New poem, free verse. It came out way more depressing than I really intended, but as I wrote it I realized that it embodies my feelings on the issue pretty well. Yep, depression. Suckfest.
The first stanza I've had all summer, with no idea how to complete the thought until I was out walking in the rain today (and after I walked to Nebraska by mistake earlier this week).
I don't think I should talk so much about the process because it probably makes the poem less enjoyable, so I'll shut up now. ^_^
Stolen Word Poem
The Assignment:
Choose a poem. Take the last word of each line and use those words at the ends of the lines in an original poem.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Draft#1:
“Home is Where the Freeway Ends.”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific ocean begins,
where the waves are capped with white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and burdens take flight,
borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
One place remains for us to go.
We drive east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow.
One place remains for us to go.
Although it’s no adventure, well we know
that home is where the freeway ends.
Draft #2
“To Peaceward”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific ocean begins,
where the surf froths and crashes white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and anchored earthworms take flight,
origami birds borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
But now, with one place still to go,
we speed east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow,
the world setting at our backs. Peaceward we go.
We are carved in the sandstone hearts of those we know.
Home is where the freeway ends.
The rewrite is due tomorrow night. Any opinions? What are the strengths and weaknesses of each draft? What should I work on? My prof said to be "more ambitious" after he saw the first draft. Did I do it?
Choose a poem. Take the last word of each line and use those words at the ends of the lines in an original poem.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Draft#1:
“Home is Where the Freeway Ends.”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific ocean begins,
where the waves are capped with white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and burdens take flight,
borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
One place remains for us to go.
We drive east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow.
One place remains for us to go.
Although it’s no adventure, well we know
that home is where the freeway ends.
Draft #2
“To Peaceward”
There is a place where the freeway ends
and the Pacific ocean begins,
where the surf froths and crashes white,
the sand sparkles bright
with gold, and anchored earthworms take flight,
origami birds borne away by the wind.
There is a place where the ocean ends and the black
pavement begins. The road once had its bends
through the places where palms and pine trees grow,
and we drove slow.
But now, with one place still to go,
we speed east to where the freeway ends.
The road once had its bends and we drove slow,
the world setting at our backs. Peaceward we go.
We are carved in the sandstone hearts of those we know.
Home is where the freeway ends.
The rewrite is due tomorrow night. Any opinions? What are the strengths and weaknesses of each draft? What should I work on? My prof said to be "more ambitious" after he saw the first draft. Did I do it?
