I'm doing this 30 Day Song Challenge on Facebook, but I figured I'd do it over here, too. I enjoy talking about music and the places it's taken me in my life.
Day 1: Your Favorite Song
I don't have an all-time favorite song, but this is my current favorite.
Ghost Town by First Aid Kit
I've been listening to this song quite a bit this summer, including one evening in June when I wrote this poem:
It’s been silence.
Quiet and crickets chirping,
cats meowing,
each blade of grass rustling
in the stale breeze,
the sound of time
wheezing by
in its wheelchair.
It was music you heard
staining your ears with life,
music that made the tears
drop with finality
onto your journal pages,
and your life’s words smeared
and you could no longer read
your own history.
So you turned
off the radio and record player
and instead began to listen to your cat’s hair
quietly hitting the carpet
in your house of sadness.
The music continues beyond
your legacy of isolation,
green lush enveloping
a loud, unapologetic life
unlived.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
August 1, 2011
March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday
Ash-Wednesday
I
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
'Ash-Wednesday', from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T S Eliot, © T S Eliot 1963, Faber & Faber Limited
I
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
'Ash-Wednesday', from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T S Eliot, © T S Eliot 1963, Faber & Faber Limited
July 27, 2010
Lucille Clifton
I just found out that one of my favorite poets, Lucille Clifton, died earlier this year. I went to one of her readings back in 2001 and found her to be remarkably down to earth. She signed my copy of Blessing the Boats: "For Leslie ~ Joy!" I feel like I just got punched in the gut. Here's one of her poems that I love, and you'll see it's quite appropriate.
dying
i saw a small moon rise
from the breast of a woman
lying in a hospital hall
and I saw that the moon was me
and I saw that the punctured bag
of a woman body was me
and i saw you sad there in the lobby
waiting to visit and I wanted
to sing to you
go home
i am waiting for you there
—Lucille Clifton
dying
i saw a small moon rise
from the breast of a woman
lying in a hospital hall
and I saw that the moon was me
and I saw that the punctured bag
of a woman body was me
and i saw you sad there in the lobby
waiting to visit and I wanted
to sing to you
go home
i am waiting for you there
—Lucille Clifton
November 27, 2009
Go Directly to Christmas: Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200
My Thanksgiving recap is going to take some time and energy, both of which I'm short on today. So I'm doing the meme below with the hopes that I can win this awesome giveaway.
(Isn't that the coolest bike you've ever seen? I could fit Roy, Charlie, and all three cats in that little bucket seat thing.)
Mama’s Holiday Wish List Meme
TodaysMama and Provo Craft are giving away a sleighful of gifts this holiday season and to enter I’m sharing this meme with you.
1. What 5 items are on your holiday wish list this year? A wireless remote for my camera, a tripod, a new printer (ours just broke), an external hard drive, and an iMac. Yeah, there's a lot of wishful thinking going on here.
2. What is your favorite handmade gift you have received? Probably a quilt that my grandmother made.
3. What handmade gift have you always wanted to tackle? I'd love to learn how to make amigurumi.
4. What was the best Christmas gift you received as a child? I loved my Legos, especially my Lego pirate ship.
5. What items are on your kid’s wish list this year? Mostly toys! I know he'd like some overalls as well.
6. What is your favorite holiday food? Fudge! 'Twill be the death of me.
7. What will you be hand-crafting for the holidays? Our stockings. I'm laughing as I type this, and probably only a few people out there will get it. Because as good as my intentions are, chances are Mandy will end up making them all for us because she's a much more patient person than I am.
8. What is your favorite holiday movie? Love Actually
9. Favorite holiday song? I've always loved "The Twelve Days of Christmas" (not to mention allllll the parodies).
10. Favorite holiday pastime? Decorating the tree and the house. It's so magical, even as an adult.
***
Today I had the opportunity to sit in my car for a few delicious moments and read. I discovered my copy of The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, which has been in my car for years. I opened it up and found a poem I'd marked, and I'm sharing it with you, just because it's beautifully puzzling.
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
***
Hope you all had wonderful Thanksgivings! I'm so grateful for all of you. See you tomorrow!
(Isn't that the coolest bike you've ever seen? I could fit Roy, Charlie, and all three cats in that little bucket seat thing.)
Mama’s Holiday Wish List Meme
TodaysMama and Provo Craft are giving away a sleighful of gifts this holiday season and to enter I’m sharing this meme with you.
1. What 5 items are on your holiday wish list this year? A wireless remote for my camera, a tripod, a new printer (ours just broke), an external hard drive, and an iMac. Yeah, there's a lot of wishful thinking going on here.
2. What is your favorite handmade gift you have received? Probably a quilt that my grandmother made.
3. What handmade gift have you always wanted to tackle? I'd love to learn how to make amigurumi.
4. What was the best Christmas gift you received as a child? I loved my Legos, especially my Lego pirate ship.
5. What items are on your kid’s wish list this year? Mostly toys! I know he'd like some overalls as well.
6. What is your favorite holiday food? Fudge! 'Twill be the death of me.
7. What will you be hand-crafting for the holidays? Our stockings. I'm laughing as I type this, and probably only a few people out there will get it. Because as good as my intentions are, chances are Mandy will end up making them all for us because she's a much more patient person than I am.
8. What is your favorite holiday movie? Love Actually
9. Favorite holiday song? I've always loved "The Twelve Days of Christmas" (not to mention allllll the parodies).
10. Favorite holiday pastime? Decorating the tree and the house. It's so magical, even as an adult.
***
Today I had the opportunity to sit in my car for a few delicious moments and read. I discovered my copy of The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, which has been in my car for years. I opened it up and found a poem I'd marked, and I'm sharing it with you, just because it's beautifully puzzling.
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
***
Hope you all had wonderful Thanksgivings! I'm so grateful for all of you. See you tomorrow!
October 12, 2009
The Future Foretold
I wrote this post a month ago but am just now getting around to sharing it.
The other day I opened my poetry folder on my computer, and this was the first file I saw.
Letter to My Future Child
I don’t even know you,
but sometimes late at night
my thoughts turn to you.
The world revolves around broken promises,
but I can’t make them to you.
I don’t even know if I want you,
and if I did, are you in the realm of possibility?
I can see you face etched
into mine and my love’s.
You will have red hair, fair skin,
a love for books, perhaps the need
to conquer the darkness with words.
I want to have you
because I don’t know if I can conquer
what I know you have the potential to do.
In writing this, I reach inside the depth
of my being and find an infinitesimal you.
You need me, you love me—
that is my reward. I will never be recognized
for anything but being your mother,
and even that is a thankless job.
I don’t even know you.
I want to be filled with something other than myself.
You are the greatest gift I could give,
the only possible legacy.
Through words I find you;
through words you will know me.
Words are not the same as promises. I can give you one but not the other.
But someday we will meet;
we both will have arrived,
and the dark emptiness will be cleansed
with your first cry.
6-19-04
I was struck by a few things about this. First, all of my poems are filed in separate folders, so when I opened my poetry folder, I saw this poem and a bunch of folders. Odd that this poem didn't have a home. (It should have been in the "Complete and Total Crap" folder that, yes, actually exists.)
Second, the mention of red hair. Charlie has red(dish) hair and it's been that color since he was born (but it's also always had a lot of blonde and brown in it, too). I was so surprised to see that I mentioned back in 2004, when I didn't even know Roy, that my future child was to have red hair. I was with someone else at the time I wrote this, and frankly if I had had kids with him, the likelihood of our child having red hair would have been pretty slim, I think. (Even though I have red hair on my side of the family and actually my hair used to look strawberry blonde sometimes, before I started highlighting it.)
Third, my mom had a dream during my first trimester that I was going to have a boy with red hair. And when she told me, I wasn't at all surprised. I just thought, "Yes, of course I'm going to have a boy with red hair." And part of me was hoping that Charlie would come out with red hair because then I could call him Charlie the Red.
I guess what strikes me the most about this poem is how lonely and unsure of myself I sound. I was still so convinced that there was something terribly wrong with me. At that point in my life, I had a boyfriend who I'd been with for going on four years, but things were on their way to ending. He didn't want children. And I tried to be okay with that. But deep down I was really longing to be a mother. And wanting to get married if the right person came along. I tried to make him fit into that mold. We even went ring shopping together. I wanted a "normal" life more than I cared to admit.
But that's not why things ended. I'm not sure if I could even put into words why it ended, but I guess it was that ol' classic "we didn't know how to love each other" type of deal. It was pretty painful at the time, but I met and married someone who is so much better for me.
And I ended up with my Charlie the Red, whose hair is actually on its way to turning blonde as I write this. I have never actually called him Charlie the Red anyway.
It's a happy ending. But one that makes me pause and think about how strange and wonderful and complex life is.
The other day I opened my poetry folder on my computer, and this was the first file I saw.
Letter to My Future Child
I don’t even know you,
but sometimes late at night
my thoughts turn to you.
The world revolves around broken promises,
but I can’t make them to you.
I don’t even know if I want you,
and if I did, are you in the realm of possibility?
I can see you face etched
into mine and my love’s.
You will have red hair, fair skin,
a love for books, perhaps the need
to conquer the darkness with words.
I want to have you
because I don’t know if I can conquer
what I know you have the potential to do.
In writing this, I reach inside the depth
of my being and find an infinitesimal you.
You need me, you love me—
that is my reward. I will never be recognized
for anything but being your mother,
and even that is a thankless job.
I don’t even know you.
I want to be filled with something other than myself.
You are the greatest gift I could give,
the only possible legacy.
Through words I find you;
through words you will know me.
Words are not the same as promises. I can give you one but not the other.
But someday we will meet;
we both will have arrived,
and the dark emptiness will be cleansed
with your first cry.
6-19-04
I was struck by a few things about this. First, all of my poems are filed in separate folders, so when I opened my poetry folder, I saw this poem and a bunch of folders. Odd that this poem didn't have a home. (It should have been in the "Complete and Total Crap" folder that, yes, actually exists.)
Second, the mention of red hair. Charlie has red(dish) hair and it's been that color since he was born (but it's also always had a lot of blonde and brown in it, too). I was so surprised to see that I mentioned back in 2004, when I didn't even know Roy, that my future child was to have red hair. I was with someone else at the time I wrote this, and frankly if I had had kids with him, the likelihood of our child having red hair would have been pretty slim, I think. (Even though I have red hair on my side of the family and actually my hair used to look strawberry blonde sometimes, before I started highlighting it.)
Third, my mom had a dream during my first trimester that I was going to have a boy with red hair. And when she told me, I wasn't at all surprised. I just thought, "Yes, of course I'm going to have a boy with red hair." And part of me was hoping that Charlie would come out with red hair because then I could call him Charlie the Red.
I guess what strikes me the most about this poem is how lonely and unsure of myself I sound. I was still so convinced that there was something terribly wrong with me. At that point in my life, I had a boyfriend who I'd been with for going on four years, but things were on their way to ending. He didn't want children. And I tried to be okay with that. But deep down I was really longing to be a mother. And wanting to get married if the right person came along. I tried to make him fit into that mold. We even went ring shopping together. I wanted a "normal" life more than I cared to admit.
But that's not why things ended. I'm not sure if I could even put into words why it ended, but I guess it was that ol' classic "we didn't know how to love each other" type of deal. It was pretty painful at the time, but I met and married someone who is so much better for me.
And I ended up with my Charlie the Red, whose hair is actually on its way to turning blonde as I write this. I have never actually called him Charlie the Red anyway.
It's a happy ending. But one that makes me pause and think about how strange and wonderful and complex life is.
September 4, 2008
Lingering in Happiness
There's this thing I do, a thing that I've been doing for years but have neglected the past year or so.
When I read a book, I use Post-its to mark passages I particularly love, and then later, I type up the passage and make it a part of my gigantic quote document that is about 700 pages long now (no kidding). I mark a lot of pages particularly when I read poetry, because the language tends to be so beautiful that I want to remember it forever.
I do the same with whole poems. If I come across a poem I absolutely love, I mark it and then type it up later on. I have a huge collection of poetry on my hard drive, which I'm sure violates some copyright laws or something.
This week I started typing up poetry and quotes again. It's very soothing to me to be able to trace over the places where such creative minds have been.
Here is the poem I typed up today.
Lingering in Happiness
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
-Mary Oliver
Beautiful, yes? This poem makes me wish for rain. And I particularly love the final image of the stones.
When I read a book, I use Post-its to mark passages I particularly love, and then later, I type up the passage and make it a part of my gigantic quote document that is about 700 pages long now (no kidding). I mark a lot of pages particularly when I read poetry, because the language tends to be so beautiful that I want to remember it forever.
I do the same with whole poems. If I come across a poem I absolutely love, I mark it and then type it up later on. I have a huge collection of poetry on my hard drive, which I'm sure violates some copyright laws or something.
This week I started typing up poetry and quotes again. It's very soothing to me to be able to trace over the places where such creative minds have been.
Here is the poem I typed up today.
Lingering in Happiness
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
-Mary Oliver
Beautiful, yes? This poem makes me wish for rain. And I particularly love the final image of the stones.
June 7, 2008
29
Twenty-nine years ago today at 9:55 AM, I was born.
I really can't believe it's the last year of my 20s. My life so far seems to have sailed by. Sometimes I feel I have little to show for the time I've been alive, but I know that's not really true. I have a husband, family, friends, education, passions, and a whole lot of books and Post-its. I am already feeling a sense of mourning for my 20s, but I know that life after this decade has a lot of good things in store for me.
I wrote a little something in honor of my birthday and the way in which I've grown as a person. (Actually, I wrote it about a month ago, but I edited it with my birthday in mind.) Although it mentions marriage, the poem is not about Roy, but his influence is there, definitely. I've included a photo I took of his eye, just because it fits (in my muddled brain, anyway).
I'm proud of this poem (or I guess it's actually more of a prose poem). It's rare that I write anything worth sharing.
29
I see you from time to time in my dreams. You stand small, a faded photograph of my self. Sometimes I awake without you, and I feel like you might have never existed. You and I have parted silently, divided only by the frailty of time. But here you are again, my strange familiar.
You are unassuming and slight, weighing only 100 pounds. You exist in dark rooms and speak through sideways glances. You long to fade away, but with each year, your legacy becomes richer and harder to bear.
You are at once the gasp of my heartbeat and its flat thudding, the disillusioned eyes that regard me with wisdom. You are my empty hand, laying palm up. You are the other, full of water.
You are married to me, and I to you. You are the reason I chase authenticity and my justification for rejecting idealism. I am simultaneously afraid and alive because of you.
You are wonderful and quiet as you sit there in the corner, and even now I don’t really know what to do with you. I was never exactly kind to you. You always ate darkness for dinner, inhaled depression as you smoked, and slept fitfully through black nights. I could not understand your obsession with shame.
You, old relic, dig yourself up by night and leave the room smelling of spent cigarettes and blue perfume. Everything about you is blue. When I choose this color, I am choosing you. When I choose this color, I am forsaking you.
****
Happy birthday to me and all the other June 7 babies (like Prince, or whatever he's calling himself these days)!
I really can't believe it's the last year of my 20s. My life so far seems to have sailed by. Sometimes I feel I have little to show for the time I've been alive, but I know that's not really true. I have a husband, family, friends, education, passions, and a whole lot of books and Post-its. I am already feeling a sense of mourning for my 20s, but I know that life after this decade has a lot of good things in store for me.
I wrote a little something in honor of my birthday and the way in which I've grown as a person. (Actually, I wrote it about a month ago, but I edited it with my birthday in mind.) Although it mentions marriage, the poem is not about Roy, but his influence is there, definitely. I've included a photo I took of his eye, just because it fits (in my muddled brain, anyway).
I'm proud of this poem (or I guess it's actually more of a prose poem). It's rare that I write anything worth sharing.
29
I see you from time to time in my dreams. You stand small, a faded photograph of my self. Sometimes I awake without you, and I feel like you might have never existed. You and I have parted silently, divided only by the frailty of time. But here you are again, my strange familiar.
You are unassuming and slight, weighing only 100 pounds. You exist in dark rooms and speak through sideways glances. You long to fade away, but with each year, your legacy becomes richer and harder to bear.
You are at once the gasp of my heartbeat and its flat thudding, the disillusioned eyes that regard me with wisdom. You are my empty hand, laying palm up. You are the other, full of water.You are married to me, and I to you. You are the reason I chase authenticity and my justification for rejecting idealism. I am simultaneously afraid and alive because of you.
You are wonderful and quiet as you sit there in the corner, and even now I don’t really know what to do with you. I was never exactly kind to you. You always ate darkness for dinner, inhaled depression as you smoked, and slept fitfully through black nights. I could not understand your obsession with shame.
You, old relic, dig yourself up by night and leave the room smelling of spent cigarettes and blue perfume. Everything about you is blue. When I choose this color, I am choosing you. When I choose this color, I am forsaking you.
****
Happy birthday to me and all the other June 7 babies (like Prince, or whatever he's calling himself these days)!
April 30, 2008
Another month gone...
I can scarcely believe April is over. So long, National Poetry Month!
I managed to stay true to my project april challenge. I wrote a poem a day and posted it along with a photo on flickr. You can check out the completed project, crappy poems and all, here. Here's a collage of the photos:
Pretty cool, eh?
Next month, I am going to try to continue to write creatively every day. I'm also going to do a monthly photo project for May, and the theme this time around is red. As usual, the photos will be on flickr.
And now I'm going to take Nyquil so it will knock me out. I really need a decent night's sleep.
And tomorrow when I wake up, it will be May.
I managed to stay true to my project april challenge. I wrote a poem a day and posted it along with a photo on flickr. You can check out the completed project, crappy poems and all, here. Here's a collage of the photos:
Pretty cool, eh?
Next month, I am going to try to continue to write creatively every day. I'm also going to do a monthly photo project for May, and the theme this time around is red. As usual, the photos will be on flickr.
And now I'm going to take Nyquil so it will knock me out. I really need a decent night's sleep.
And tomorrow when I wake up, it will be May.
April 1, 2008
"April is the cruellest month."
So said T.S. Eliot in his masterpiece of modernity The Waste Land. I personally like April. It's a month where good things happen. In particular, it is National Poetry Month. A few years back, I used to celebrate each year by reading nothing but poetry the entire month of April. This is something that I've slacked off on in recent years.
But I'm ready to celebrate National Poetry Month again! This year I've decided to write a poem a day and post it (along with a photo) on my flickr page. (I can't vouch for the quality of the poetry, however, as I will be posting the first draft.) I am pretty excited about this, as it gives me permission to focus on two things I love dearly: poetry and photography. I have thought about starting another blog devoted to this, but I'm going to see how it works with flickr first.
In addition to making this decision today, I also had my first day back at school. In particular, it was the first day of my internship in the Advanced Poetry Writing class. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was how young the undergrads looked. I think they will be a good group though, and I am excited about working with them and participating in their assignments.
So this post has proved me to be the nerd I truly am, which I am totally okay with, because I am feeling super inspired at the moment. Here's a list of things that have touched/inspired me today:
a lavender rose
a very dirty and emaciated homeless man walking down the street
the music of Tori Amos
a new notebook and set of pens
a trip to the drugstore
a poem about a rock
I hope to finish Part 3 of my HOH saga sometime soon.
But I'm ready to celebrate National Poetry Month again! This year I've decided to write a poem a day and post it (along with a photo) on my flickr page. (I can't vouch for the quality of the poetry, however, as I will be posting the first draft.) I am pretty excited about this, as it gives me permission to focus on two things I love dearly: poetry and photography. I have thought about starting another blog devoted to this, but I'm going to see how it works with flickr first.
In addition to making this decision today, I also had my first day back at school. In particular, it was the first day of my internship in the Advanced Poetry Writing class. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was how young the undergrads looked. I think they will be a good group though, and I am excited about working with them and participating in their assignments.
So this post has proved me to be the nerd I truly am, which I am totally okay with, because I am feeling super inspired at the moment. Here's a list of things that have touched/inspired me today:
a lavender rose
a very dirty and emaciated homeless man walking down the street
the music of Tori Amos
a new notebook and set of pens
a trip to the drugstore
a poem about a rock
I hope to finish Part 3 of my HOH saga sometime soon.
March 8, 2008
Words for the Departed
Today is a special day. It's my old friend Paula's deathday. It's been nine years since she died, and every year on or around March 8, I try to honor her with some words.
I met Paula when we were both 11 years old and in sixth grade. We were both in the same GT (Gifted & Talented) classes, and we both took Theatre Arts as an elective all throughout junior high. We got to know each other quite well as we made our way through those awkward junior high years. Because we had so many classes together, we ended up hanging out together a lot.
Paula was a beautiful young girl. She had this silky, thick, dark brown hair, big brown eyes, and olive skin. She had a cute figure too. She was intelligent and quite a good actress.
Despite her good qualities, my feelings towards Paula were very conflicted. I felt like she tried too hard, so she got on my nerves quite a bit. She didn't have many friends because other people thought she was annoying as well. She also had a lisp, which I'm sure was hell to deal with, and people constantly made fun of her for it. I felt really sorry for her, and part of me truly liked her. My evil adolescent self often won over, and I would talk behind her back or be mean to her. And the evil adolescent Paula could be very mean and spiteful as well. We were just two young girls who didn't know how to really treat each other with respect.
We still had some great times though. I remember this one weekend afternoon when we went to the movies to see Aspen Extreme. In the middle of the movie, Paula laid down on the seat and rested her legs up against the back of her chair so they were in the air (think of a pin-up girl's pose). I was so mortified that she was sitting the wrong way in her chair. Later on she told everyone who would listen that I was the one who sat the wrong way in my chair. Oh, the humiliation!
Being the Theatre Arts geeks that we were, we would often attend and perform in local competitions. In 8th grade, Paula and I (along with several others) performed a record mime to Monster Mash and had an absolute blast (and even advanced to semi-finals!). We also competed in the group interpretation category and performed a Shel Silverstein poem.
Later that year, the little group that both Paula and I were part of decided overnight (in true girl fashion) that they didn't like me anymore. They stopped speaking to me, and our silence lasted all throughout high school. (I'm sure that this was mostly due to the fact that I went to a different high school and didn't see any of them for all those years.) I don't think I saw Paula once during our high school years. I heard about her though. She developed a certain reputation, and to this day, I don't know how true it was. (Honestly, it doesn't really matter anyway. None of us are saints, not even the dead.)
During the spring semester of my second year of junior college, I began to see Paula around. She had a class across the hall from my political science class, so I would always see her before and/or after class. One time I ran into her outside of the building. She bummed a cigarette off me, and we exchanged a few superficial words. That day it became clear to me, without saying a word about it, that everything that happened in junior high (whatever it was) was over with. We were adults.
Paula had a boyfriend named Geoff who she'd been with for a couple of years. Apparently, he was the jealous type, and eventually she got tired of it. She broke up with him on a Sunday evening, and the next day she went to work as usual at the local monogram shop called Initially Yours. Geoff showed up to see Paula and was allowed into the back where she was working.
But Geoff wasn't there to talk. Instead, he pulled out the gun he had concealed and shot Paula point-blank in the head. Right afterwards, he shot himself. It is my understanding that both died instantly. Paula was 20 years old.
It is surreal when someone you know dies. But murder? I just couldn't wrap my 19-year-old brain around it. Even now, at 28, I can't really comprehend what happened to Paula. On one hand, it's very simple. An obviously unstable and troubled person took her life in a very violent way. But on the other hand, she was there one minute - and gone the next. The fact that we are all so fragile is probably the most scary thing in the world to me.
When I heard about Paula's violent death, I was in a state of denial and shock for awhile. I couldn't cry. I went to her funeral, and there were so many people there. The church was completely filled. I saw people I hadn't seen in years. It was like a big reunion under the worst of circumstances. Our little town was horribly shaken up by the murder-suicide.
I will never forget seeing her parents walking down the aisle to the front of the church that day. They were literally leaning on each other; it was so obvious that they were completely filled with despair and totally emotionally broken.
And yet, I still couldn't cry.
At school, I kept expecting to see her before or after my political science class. And every time, I had to remind myself that she was gone, that I would never see her walking briskly down the hall again, that I would never see that half-smile of uncertainty again.
A couple of years later, a gun store opened up next to Initially Yours, the place where Paula worked and was killed (by a gun, no less). I hated that so much. I often imagined her parents driving by and the terrible shock they would experience at seeing a gun store so close to where their only child was killed. I couldn't believe the insensitivity of opening that gun store. Frankly, I still can't.
Nine years have passed, and this is the first year that I've had a few lonely tears fall over Paula's death (while writing this, incidentally - I think this is the deepest I've gone into telling the story of the Paula I knew). Her passing still shakes me to the very core of my being. I just can't believe that the girl with all that beautiful hair and that endearing lisp, who loved to dance and act and be silly, is gone. I just can't believe it. She will never finish her college education, get married, perform in any more plays, have children, travel, or die peacefully. Her life was cut way too short by someone who might've actually gotten over it had he not acted on impulse less than 24 hours after being broken up with. Who knows what might have happened if Geoff had just given it time?
It is all so senseless and tragic. And every year on the anniversary of Paula's death, I write a few words for her and try to make sense of what's left behind. I write to atone for the shitty way I treated her when we were young. I write to help myself understand the reality of death and the horror of violence. I write because she cannot speak: her voice is forever silenced.
Somewhere in my mind, I still remember that voice, especially as she read that Shel Silverstein poem that we performed for competition:
“Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
the impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves,
then listen close to me...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.”
RIP, Paula Christine Green
October 1978 - March 1999
I met Paula when we were both 11 years old and in sixth grade. We were both in the same GT (Gifted & Talented) classes, and we both took Theatre Arts as an elective all throughout junior high. We got to know each other quite well as we made our way through those awkward junior high years. Because we had so many classes together, we ended up hanging out together a lot.
Paula was a beautiful young girl. She had this silky, thick, dark brown hair, big brown eyes, and olive skin. She had a cute figure too. She was intelligent and quite a good actress.
Despite her good qualities, my feelings towards Paula were very conflicted. I felt like she tried too hard, so she got on my nerves quite a bit. She didn't have many friends because other people thought she was annoying as well. She also had a lisp, which I'm sure was hell to deal with, and people constantly made fun of her for it. I felt really sorry for her, and part of me truly liked her. My evil adolescent self often won over, and I would talk behind her back or be mean to her. And the evil adolescent Paula could be very mean and spiteful as well. We were just two young girls who didn't know how to really treat each other with respect.
We still had some great times though. I remember this one weekend afternoon when we went to the movies to see Aspen Extreme. In the middle of the movie, Paula laid down on the seat and rested her legs up against the back of her chair so they were in the air (think of a pin-up girl's pose). I was so mortified that she was sitting the wrong way in her chair. Later on she told everyone who would listen that I was the one who sat the wrong way in my chair. Oh, the humiliation!
Being the Theatre Arts geeks that we were, we would often attend and perform in local competitions. In 8th grade, Paula and I (along with several others) performed a record mime to Monster Mash and had an absolute blast (and even advanced to semi-finals!). We also competed in the group interpretation category and performed a Shel Silverstein poem.
Later that year, the little group that both Paula and I were part of decided overnight (in true girl fashion) that they didn't like me anymore. They stopped speaking to me, and our silence lasted all throughout high school. (I'm sure that this was mostly due to the fact that I went to a different high school and didn't see any of them for all those years.) I don't think I saw Paula once during our high school years. I heard about her though. She developed a certain reputation, and to this day, I don't know how true it was. (Honestly, it doesn't really matter anyway. None of us are saints, not even the dead.)
During the spring semester of my second year of junior college, I began to see Paula around. She had a class across the hall from my political science class, so I would always see her before and/or after class. One time I ran into her outside of the building. She bummed a cigarette off me, and we exchanged a few superficial words. That day it became clear to me, without saying a word about it, that everything that happened in junior high (whatever it was) was over with. We were adults.
Paula had a boyfriend named Geoff who she'd been with for a couple of years. Apparently, he was the jealous type, and eventually she got tired of it. She broke up with him on a Sunday evening, and the next day she went to work as usual at the local monogram shop called Initially Yours. Geoff showed up to see Paula and was allowed into the back where she was working.
But Geoff wasn't there to talk. Instead, he pulled out the gun he had concealed and shot Paula point-blank in the head. Right afterwards, he shot himself. It is my understanding that both died instantly. Paula was 20 years old.
It is surreal when someone you know dies. But murder? I just couldn't wrap my 19-year-old brain around it. Even now, at 28, I can't really comprehend what happened to Paula. On one hand, it's very simple. An obviously unstable and troubled person took her life in a very violent way. But on the other hand, she was there one minute - and gone the next. The fact that we are all so fragile is probably the most scary thing in the world to me.
When I heard about Paula's violent death, I was in a state of denial and shock for awhile. I couldn't cry. I went to her funeral, and there were so many people there. The church was completely filled. I saw people I hadn't seen in years. It was like a big reunion under the worst of circumstances. Our little town was horribly shaken up by the murder-suicide.
I will never forget seeing her parents walking down the aisle to the front of the church that day. They were literally leaning on each other; it was so obvious that they were completely filled with despair and totally emotionally broken.
And yet, I still couldn't cry.
At school, I kept expecting to see her before or after my political science class. And every time, I had to remind myself that she was gone, that I would never see her walking briskly down the hall again, that I would never see that half-smile of uncertainty again.
A couple of years later, a gun store opened up next to Initially Yours, the place where Paula worked and was killed (by a gun, no less). I hated that so much. I often imagined her parents driving by and the terrible shock they would experience at seeing a gun store so close to where their only child was killed. I couldn't believe the insensitivity of opening that gun store. Frankly, I still can't.
Nine years have passed, and this is the first year that I've had a few lonely tears fall over Paula's death (while writing this, incidentally - I think this is the deepest I've gone into telling the story of the Paula I knew). Her passing still shakes me to the very core of my being. I just can't believe that the girl with all that beautiful hair and that endearing lisp, who loved to dance and act and be silly, is gone. I just can't believe it. She will never finish her college education, get married, perform in any more plays, have children, travel, or die peacefully. Her life was cut way too short by someone who might've actually gotten over it had he not acted on impulse less than 24 hours after being broken up with. Who knows what might have happened if Geoff had just given it time?
It is all so senseless and tragic. And every year on the anniversary of Paula's death, I write a few words for her and try to make sense of what's left behind. I write to atone for the shitty way I treated her when we were young. I write to help myself understand the reality of death and the horror of violence. I write because she cannot speak: her voice is forever silenced.
Somewhere in my mind, I still remember that voice, especially as she read that Shel Silverstein poem that we performed for competition:
“Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
the impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves,
then listen close to me...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.”
RIP, Paula Christine Green
October 1978 - March 1999
February 4, 2008
Meanwhile
In class tonight, I had the pleasure of having a couple of my poems critiqued. I have never taken a creative writing class before, because I've always shied away from creative writing types, particularly poets. I have found the few that I've met to be insufferable, egotistical assholes. That said, I have realized that I have unfairly judged all creative writing types based on a select few, and that there are people out there who are interested in improving their writing as opposed to just being praised for it. Fortunately, my class is full of people who are there for a multitude of reasons, and all of them are remarkably full of insight.Here's one of the poems that I turned in for our workshop:
Meanwhile
in Paradise,
God sat on His golden throne,
staring at the children
down below His clouds.
One of them
had always believed
He had black hair
and was rotund,
wearing a red shirt.
“No answers are given
to imperfect beings,”
the teacher told them,
her habit wrapped around her
like tiny black hands,
“only in Paradise
will your questions
be addressed.”
The others nodded.
The girl in the corner
began counting her granted
breaths on her skinny fingers.
I cheated and turned in two poems that I wrote years ago. As a matter of fact, both have already been published. But I can no longer bring myself to show people a very rough piece of writing, unless I've been working on it for a long time and have made absolutely no progress with it. When the time came to write something for this assignment, I really got mentally blocked. Everything that leaked out of my pen was total crap. So I went for something that wasn't so crappy (well, in my opinion).
I was very nervous about the whole thing. I'm not shy, but I was anxious about my poems being completely ripped apart and ridiculed. I honestly didn't think people would "get" them, because I feel at times that my poems are too obscure (and not in a good way). So I was really happy to hear that everyone got them, and not only that, people had theories about them that I hadn't even considered.
All of this has given me a renewed sense of self-confidence and a desire to revisit some of my old poems to see if I can make them into anything. I'm sure most of them are lost causes, but there might be a splinter of something interesting in a few of them at least.
Also, my lens came in today. It's a huge black hunk of magic, and I can't wait to really play with it.
January 27, 2008
Words and Photos on a Rainy Sunday
I absolutely love clouds, rain, and storms. Needless to say, this past week and especially this weekend have been heaven for me. It has been a quiet weekend, but those are the best kind to have when it's raining outside.I've been working on several school activities this weekend. For starters, I have to critique some of my classmates' work for my creative writing class. This is proving to be tougher than I originally anticipated, because most of it doesn't really strike a chord with me. I don't find any of it bad, but I don't find it particularly good either. So I'm not really sure what to say.
I am also supposed to turn in a creative work of my own tomorrow, and I've had little success with writing something worthwhile. So I started going through my poetry folders on my computer to find some promising pieces. I revisited some very old poems of mine, and man, they suck. Some of them are decent. All of them need work, even if I once filed them in the "Finished" folder. It's amazing how my perspective on my poetry has changed. I think I am going to turn in a couple of poems that have already been published. Even though they've appeared in print already, they are by no means perfect. It'll be interesting to hear other people's points of view.In addition to school work, I've been doing a lot of soul searching and thinking about what it is I can realistically devote my life to. I haven't come to any real solutions yet, but one thing I do know is that I don't want to be a sellout. I have been emailing with Crissy, who was my wedding photographer. She also happens to be a person I admire greatly, because she is talented and brave and a positive influence on others. She has reiterated some simple truths that I need to revisit, and I am very grateful for that.
Along with these big things, there are the little things that I've enjoyed this weekend: sleeping in, grocery shopping at Trader Joe's, a smoothie from Juice it up, some fresh flowers, a sandwich from Togo's, a couple of unbearably cute kitties, good music, my awesome husband, and a few photos.It's been a good weekend. I wish I wasn't dreading this coming week so much.
November 5, 2007
Water Spilling
I just got home from class and am completely lacking in ideas for a blog topic today. I have poetry on the brain. So excuse my cheesiness, but I thought I'd share my very first published poem.
Water Spilling
Wading into the river,
a woman and her reflection
tried to splash each other
with cold running water.
Silence ensued, as one was masked,
a shadow in her glittering eyes.
She stood, watched, and lifted
her head to the sun,
then looked down again
at the rushing river.
In the eyes of the other,
only the sun was blind.
It fell through the trees
in small tatters.
This poem was first written in June 2000, and it was published at the end of 2001 by Tucumcari Literary Review, which was a really crappy little magazine filled with equally crappy poetry. And even though I deemed this poem finished in 2001, I am not happy with it anymore. I think the last 2 lines are very good, but the rest of it needs some tightening.
"Water Spilling" began as an acrostic poem that spells out "Water Spilling," hence the title. Here's the original draft:
Water Spilling
Wading into the river,
A woman and her reflection
Tried to splash
Each other with cold
Running water.
Silence ensued, as one was blinded,
Put a mask over her gleaming eyes.
In the river one stood, watched,
Lifted her head to the sun.
Looked down again at the rushing river.
In the eyes of the other
No one was blind but the sun that
Gushed through the trees.
I love what a good edit can do to any piece of writing. While the changes I made from the original draft to the "final" one weren't huge, they do illustrate that in writing, every word counts, especially if you're writing poetry.
I really should start writing poetry again. I miss it.
Water Spilling
Wading into the river,
a woman and her reflection
tried to splash each other
with cold running water.
Silence ensued, as one was masked,
a shadow in her glittering eyes.
She stood, watched, and lifted
her head to the sun,
then looked down again
at the rushing river.
In the eyes of the other,
only the sun was blind.
It fell through the trees
in small tatters.
This poem was first written in June 2000, and it was published at the end of 2001 by Tucumcari Literary Review, which was a really crappy little magazine filled with equally crappy poetry. And even though I deemed this poem finished in 2001, I am not happy with it anymore. I think the last 2 lines are very good, but the rest of it needs some tightening.
"Water Spilling" began as an acrostic poem that spells out "Water Spilling," hence the title. Here's the original draft:
Water Spilling
Wading into the river,
A woman and her reflection
Tried to splash
Each other with cold
Running water.
Silence ensued, as one was blinded,
Put a mask over her gleaming eyes.
In the river one stood, watched,
Lifted her head to the sun.
Looked down again at the rushing river.
In the eyes of the other
No one was blind but the sun that
Gushed through the trees.
I love what a good edit can do to any piece of writing. While the changes I made from the original draft to the "final" one weren't huge, they do illustrate that in writing, every word counts, especially if you're writing poetry.
I really should start writing poetry again. I miss it.
November 1, 2007
Uncentered
I'm exhausted.
Around this time every quarter, I am feeling completely depleted. It's the end of week 6, so I only have 4 more weeks of class left (not including finals week). My class is not all that demanding, and I have enjoyed it so far. The class focuses on Eco-Poetics, which basically means we're studying different types of nature poems. My professor even had us each write a nature poem. I am not good at writing poetry on command - I usually wait until I'm inspired. But here's what I wrote:
The Center of the Tree
The tree stands solidly,
almost alone,
its center carved out and empty.
No one knows
about this hollow place.
The tree tells a story
about a door
to a garden
of forgotten mythos.
The life beyond this door
once sparkled,
untainted and unrequited.
And fires and wars and genocide
swept across the land.
And the center became
uncentered.
Time trickled on,
resilient.
So there it is, my poem-on-command. I'm not sure how to feel about it. I haven't had enough time to make up my mind. I don't think it's total crap, but I also am not sure exactly what I was trying to say. I have glimmers, but for the most part I just pounded it out.
Soon I'm going to have to begin my final paper, which always takes a lot out of me. I'm going to be writing on Ted Hughes' Crow, which is one of my favorite collections of poetry ever. I always jump at the chance to write on a new topic or literary work instead of trying to revise an old paper.
Also, I started rereading the series on which I'm writing my thesis, which is Neil Gaiman's The Sandman. I finished the first book and made a ton of notes in the process. Now I'm on the second book. I plan to have all 11 of them finished before school starts up again in January, because I'm going to take Thesis Planning.
I truly love being a student, but I am really burned out at this point. However, I'm pressing on because I am so close to being done. Wish me luck.
Around this time every quarter, I am feeling completely depleted. It's the end of week 6, so I only have 4 more weeks of class left (not including finals week). My class is not all that demanding, and I have enjoyed it so far. The class focuses on Eco-Poetics, which basically means we're studying different types of nature poems. My professor even had us each write a nature poem. I am not good at writing poetry on command - I usually wait until I'm inspired. But here's what I wrote:
The Center of the Tree
The tree stands solidly,
almost alone,
its center carved out and empty.
No one knows
about this hollow place.
The tree tells a story
about a door
to a garden
of forgotten mythos.
The life beyond this door
once sparkled,
untainted and unrequited.
And fires and wars and genocide
swept across the land.
And the center became
uncentered.
Time trickled on,
resilient.
So there it is, my poem-on-command. I'm not sure how to feel about it. I haven't had enough time to make up my mind. I don't think it's total crap, but I also am not sure exactly what I was trying to say. I have glimmers, but for the most part I just pounded it out.
Soon I'm going to have to begin my final paper, which always takes a lot out of me. I'm going to be writing on Ted Hughes' Crow, which is one of my favorite collections of poetry ever. I always jump at the chance to write on a new topic or literary work instead of trying to revise an old paper.
Also, I started rereading the series on which I'm writing my thesis, which is Neil Gaiman's The Sandman. I finished the first book and made a ton of notes in the process. Now I'm on the second book. I plan to have all 11 of them finished before school starts up again in January, because I'm going to take Thesis Planning.
I truly love being a student, but I am really burned out at this point. However, I'm pressing on because I am so close to being done. Wish me luck.
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