It was very dark One street lamp One cul-de-sac
He said he would watch me walk home to be safe
I walked past a recycling bin of beer cans I walked past a soccer goal
Not much can happen in a hundred feet of suburb.
Friday, December 31, 2010
In defense of lists in poems
Once upon a time
- i began a list in sentences
- one man found a sentence beautiful
- two man heard it easy to recreate
- two man founded an ugly sentence
- one man sighed
- two man smirked
- his victory was only apparent to himself
- this is an ugly sentence
- some people say numbers and letters cannot
- this sentence says they can
- q listed her favorite words
- e listed her favorite words
- no two lists are idientical
- this list is not identical
- this sentence is beautiful
- list
- i list in sentences
- sentences are a number of letter lists
- i choose letter e, as it begins my name
- list
- e
Driver's Ed
I wish he would just shave
but his eyes are nice. I explain
the sun makes two things
heat and light. leaning in,
his eyes told him they were
connected.
No connection, I said.
His face is one- planes of lips
bright bright eyes and teeth
that are beautiful
black hair black skin.
but curliness at the corners of the mouth- dirty
I dash out colloquialisms and
sprinkle grammatical errors (for to err is human)
in a nattempt. For he is beautiful.
but I wish he would shave. I wish my eyes would brighten.
but really (and this is private) I like my face better.
I'm finna apologize.
Fixin to.
Sorry.
but his eyes are nice. I explain
the sun makes two things
heat and light. leaning in,
his eyes told him they were
connected.
No connection, I said.
His face is one- planes of lips
bright bright eyes and teeth
that are beautiful
black hair black skin.
but curliness at the corners of the mouth- dirty
I dash out colloquialisms and
sprinkle grammatical errors (for to err is human)
in a nattempt. For he is beautiful.
but I wish he would shave. I wish my eyes would brighten.
but really (and this is private) I like my face better.
I'm finna apologize.
Fixin to.
Sorry.
Ms. Bosselaar (carried over)
Ms Bosselaar is, I think,
a lot older than I am. But
something about the way she lines lines up
is sibilant to the way I do,
except better and sadder.
A lot sadder. She followed a man in a museum once,
and some others other times,
and they looked the same- people- but meant different things
just like all of her repeated lines.
She's a little older than I am,
(Ms. Bosselaar is) I think.
Why is she sad though? I
follow her around a museum, and she looks at all the paintings unlike the man in her poem.
I watch her face, as much of it as I
can see because she turns away fast,
and ducks when it's apparent her
***
head might be blocking m view of the oil pastel,
and I guess a head might bother some people
but you are the real art here, and
I think Ms. Bosselaar knows that
as well as I do.
Or maybe she ducked out of the
way to see the art behind me,
because our eyes caught.
And as I watch her face change,
from looking at that oil to looking
at me,
I think I know her.
Then she ducks away again,
and I wonder. Was it the nunnery? The
death of a child, the poet lover, the-
everything is too close to be real,
and I wonder now if it was the painting that
didn't change her face at all (oh, what a watercolor!)
that really got to her. look! Now
she's walking away, and all I see
is hair.
I'm trying to follow you, Ms. Bosselaar, because you
are the real art,
the one I don't understand
no matter how sibilant.
Then again I'm not sure- I rarely read
in art museums. Are these painting yours,
all frames from a long film strip? I rarely read
the little placards- (Laure-Anne Bosselaar, all?)
It's the fun of an art museum.
Am I following correctly?
Is this where you stepped?
Why is your walking face soaking in that picture
there? I think you are a lot older
than me, and I stumble on these
polished floors that you've tread.
I might not follow very fast, but
you are the real art, Ms. Bosselaar.
a lot older than I am. But
something about the way she lines lines up
is sibilant to the way I do,
except better and sadder.
A lot sadder. She followed a man in a museum once,
and some others other times,
and they looked the same- people- but meant different things
just like all of her repeated lines.
She's a little older than I am,
(Ms. Bosselaar is) I think.
Why is she sad though? I
follow her around a museum, and she looks at all the paintings unlike the man in her poem.
I watch her face, as much of it as I
can see because she turns away fast,
and ducks when it's apparent her
***
head might be blocking m view of the oil pastel,
and I guess a head might bother some people
but you are the real art here, and
I think Ms. Bosselaar knows that
as well as I do.
Or maybe she ducked out of the
way to see the art behind me,
because our eyes caught.
And as I watch her face change,
from looking at that oil to looking
at me,
I think I know her.
Then she ducks away again,
and I wonder. Was it the nunnery? The
death of a child, the poet lover, the-
everything is too close to be real,
and I wonder now if it was the painting that
didn't change her face at all (oh, what a watercolor!)
that really got to her. look! Now
she's walking away, and all I see
is hair.
I'm trying to follow you, Ms. Bosselaar, because you
are the real art,
the one I don't understand
no matter how sibilant.
Then again I'm not sure- I rarely read
in art museums. Are these painting yours,
all frames from a long film strip? I rarely read
the little placards- (Laure-Anne Bosselaar, all?)
It's the fun of an art museum.
Am I following correctly?
Is this where you stepped?
Why is your walking face soaking in that picture
there? I think you are a lot older
than me, and I stumble on these
polished floors that you've tread.
I might not follow very fast, but
you are the real art, Ms. Bosselaar.
fitting
Hullo. No, I do think you are exceptionally important.
human civilization has always followed the rivers
and cried when the rivers flooded or shrank.
we need the water, please.
Hullo? You are exceptionally important! Please don't.
I need your water
in an effort to seem thinner in the mirror, you sucked it in
well when I look into a river I see myself and the bottom too
Hullo! Sorry, I can't hear above the roar.
the other one, when the rains come in the mountain, turn a muddy brown and there is water all over.
sometimes that's necessary for the ecosystem
but the civilization makes nice dams as well.
actually, not nice.
"I was just kidding." I am a bad joker- slurp! No, I am funny- whoosh!
I want a quiet rumble, a gigantic trickle.
Willowy lady, stepping one foot in front of the other with a pot on your head
you are a river as well as I
you fit your banks
do not parch us all. The ground beneath your feet gives a little as you run over it
little boy, squish squish. We all need water and banks.
fit.
human civilization has always followed the rivers
and cried when the rivers flooded or shrank.
we need the water, please.
Hullo? You are exceptionally important! Please don't.
I need your water
in an effort to seem thinner in the mirror, you sucked it in
well when I look into a river I see myself and the bottom too
Hullo! Sorry, I can't hear above the roar.
the other one, when the rains come in the mountain, turn a muddy brown and there is water all over.
sometimes that's necessary for the ecosystem
but the civilization makes nice dams as well.
actually, not nice.
"I was just kidding." I am a bad joker- slurp! No, I am funny- whoosh!
I want a quiet rumble, a gigantic trickle.
Willowy lady, stepping one foot in front of the other with a pot on your head
you are a river as well as I
you fit your banks
do not parch us all. The ground beneath your feet gives a little as you run over it
little boy, squish squish. We all need water and banks.
fit.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sitting in church tomorrows from today
I was sitting in church on Christmas Eve
16, and a little uncomfortable
with my comfortable mother on one side of me
and I might have been holding a round squirming three-year-old
but thinking
and I decided that I never ever wanted to hear Emmanuel
and think Kant instead of Jesus.
I walked home from church
all alone
and since we used to keep baked goods in the microwave
to keep bugs off,
I was thinking
that I never ever wanted to live in a place
where cupcakes lasted more than 24 hours
not because of allergies or wanting to save it for special
but just because they did.
Then I ate the last cupcake.
16, and a little uncomfortable
with my comfortable mother on one side of me
and I might have been holding a round squirming three-year-old
but thinking
and I decided that I never ever wanted to hear Emmanuel
and think Kant instead of Jesus.
I walked home from church
all alone
and since we used to keep baked goods in the microwave
to keep bugs off,
I was thinking
that I never ever wanted to live in a place
where cupcakes lasted more than 24 hours
not because of allergies or wanting to save it for special
but just because they did.
Then I ate the last cupcake.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
green paint
I accidentally painted my dresser drawer green
in pursuit of a daddy longlegs that I wanted out of my clothes
in pursuit of a daddy longlegs that I wanted out of my clothes
Friday, December 17, 2010
The world is corrupt
The postman who brings my mail every day is corrupt
The police officer across the table from your cousin is corrupt
The teachers, the senators, the bosses, the stock brokers are corrupt.
Also corrupt are the button pressers
the bank tellers and the man who handed me my shoes over a glass countertop.
I, too, am corrupt.
Don't trust anything I say.
The police officer across the table from your cousin is corrupt
The teachers, the senators, the bosses, the stock brokers are corrupt.
Also corrupt are the button pressers
the bank tellers and the man who handed me my shoes over a glass countertop.
I, too, am corrupt.
Don't trust anything I say.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
New flow
I want to rhyme real complicatedly, but
that's not how rhymes present themselves, cause see
in ears inside my head they classify
and separate like boxes in an attic
I want to flow just like that Rothko guy
still rhyming, still boxes: I don't spill my things across the floor
with the line length of Howl or the squiggles of Pollock
My boxes need a special kind of logic
like fractal patterns or squares of a door
and coming to an end like maybe me.
that's not how rhymes present themselves, cause see
in ears inside my head they classify
and separate like boxes in an attic
I want to flow just like that Rothko guy
still rhyming, still boxes: I don't spill my things across the floor
with the line length of Howl or the squiggles of Pollock
My boxes need a special kind of logic
like fractal patterns or squares of a door
and coming to an end like maybe me.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
the geometry of the brain
Sometimes I think my mind is two lovers, or
lovers to be: linear and nonlinear
and they are meant for each other but nonlinear is
“playing hard to get”
she is so fast. She leaves pretzels and love knots as trails behind her
and linear stops to sort them out,
finally he comes to a point at the end of the line
and she’s so far ahead, twisty like a cadenza in two measures
wait what? hold on, let me rephrase…
but lines are one-dimensional, as he moves towards her
he’s overtaken but never overtakes
and the old line is simply
parallel.
lovers to be: linear and nonlinear
and they are meant for each other but nonlinear is
“playing hard to get”
she is so fast. She leaves pretzels and love knots as trails behind her
and linear stops to sort them out,
finally he comes to a point at the end of the line
and she’s so far ahead, twisty like a cadenza in two measures
wait what? hold on, let me rephrase…
but lines are one-dimensional, as he moves towards her
he’s overtaken but never overtakes
and the old line is simply
parallel.
My Utopia:
My mother's friend I loved immediately
She had been to university, law school
a castle and a ghetto
and she came back to Michigan at thirty-six
ready to settle
on the corner of milkand honey
with a nice lawn. Why did I love her?
She understood, then humbly chose her place.
Were I a king
I would that all learn as she did;
Were I a scientist
My hypothesis would be:
with that university,
law school, castle and ghetto
we will all pick our corners of milk and honey
one house per person and fill up the street;
Were I a food critic and acclaimed as well
I truly doubt my own understanding in this poem
I can't settle here or read the street signs.
Do I inspire my friend's daughter? maybe I should
be a king instead- there's honey there, and someone can explain how to write poems
said the ghetto and the university.
She had been to university, law school
a castle and a ghetto
and she came back to Michigan at thirty-six
ready to settle
on the corner of milkand honey
with a nice lawn. Why did I love her?
She understood, then humbly chose her place.
Were I a king
I would that all learn as she did;
Were I a scientist
My hypothesis would be:
with that university,
law school, castle and ghetto
we will all pick our corners of milk and honey
one house per person and fill up the street;
Were I a food critic and acclaimed as well
I truly doubt my own understanding in this poem
I can't settle here or read the street signs.
Do I inspire my friend's daughter? maybe I should
be a king instead- there's honey there, and someone can explain how to write poems
said the ghetto and the university.
"Journal 20"
Influences shaped Kumar's life.
Banks do to a stream.
And like a stream he went to lower ground always:
"they push against sharp turnings and after years they change," like
banks do. To a stream,
Forward is the only truth.
They push against sharp turnings. And after years, they change. Like
streams, he reflects some light and yet we can see into it.
Forward is the only truth,
yet he exists where he was gone, as do all
streams. He reflects some light, and yet we can see into it:
he has a bank inside and through and under him,
yet he exists. Where he has gone, as do all,
he changes it, it changes him.
He has a bank inside and throughand under him.
Influences shaped Kumar's life.
Banks do to a stream.
And like a stream he went to lower ground always:
"they push against sharp turnings and after years they change," like
banks do. To a stream,
Forward is the only truth.
They push against sharp turnings. And after years, they change. Like
streams, he reflects some light and yet we can see into it.
Forward is the only truth,
yet he exists where he was gone, as do all
streams. He reflects some light, and yet we can see into it:
he has a bank inside and through and under him,
yet he exists. Where he has gone, as do all,
he changes it, it changes him.
He has a bank inside and throughand under him.
Influences shaped Kumar's life.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Thunk.
Well what do poems sound like
when they hit you?
Splat if they're empty
(silent assimilation is also possible)
but I am sure they make a sound for you
maybe they chirp like dewy grass on bare feet
just out of a starched bed or
do your poems fizzle like bacon and
candy sugar in hot mouths
and greasy frying pans? My poems
thunk
like old wood blocks or a dropped guitar resonating in admonition
and hands, thanking the tree
somewhere; a nervous heartbeat
stumbling around a stage
and waiting for the
orchestra
to begin.
when they hit you?
Splat if they're empty
(silent assimilation is also possible)
but I am sure they make a sound for you
maybe they chirp like dewy grass on bare feet
just out of a starched bed or
do your poems fizzle like bacon and
candy sugar in hot mouths
and greasy frying pans? My poems
thunk
like old wood blocks or a dropped guitar resonating in admonition
and hands, thanking the tree
somewhere; a nervous heartbeat
stumbling around a stage
and waiting for the
orchestra
to begin.
The frontier
I knew the front cover was heavy Columbus
and then later Virginia, with Washington, cherry trees, curly hair.
The seashore and Virginia, those I saw. Later,
flipping through, I saw there was close dark print
Something about the Beach Boys singing about Nixon in California
surf.
But what comes in between Columbus and my chapter?
I skimmed through the syllabus Lewis&Clark drew up for me.
Passed unit tests in 1812 and 1914 to check I'm on track.
Firm plots are cordoned off in chapters
little numbers next to them in the Table of Contents
Every year the Almanac reports the movement of the frontier
(by now the Mississippi area has congealed-I was worried
it would never be straight,
when I first went by. But
it did, in hindsight.) Unconciously, I fill out the trail behind me, filing new people. Immigrants and
time and population and so many feet widened and hardened it. Looking
forwards, I send out railroads and wagonloads-
tendrils, I read ahead to ready because
I want a textbook in my head.
and then later Virginia, with Washington, cherry trees, curly hair.
The seashore and Virginia, those I saw. Later,
flipping through, I saw there was close dark print
Something about the Beach Boys singing about Nixon in California
surf.
But what comes in between Columbus and my chapter?
I skimmed through the syllabus Lewis&Clark drew up for me.
Passed unit tests in 1812 and 1914 to check I'm on track.
Firm plots are cordoned off in chapters
little numbers next to them in the Table of Contents
Every year the Almanac reports the movement of the frontier
(by now the Mississippi area has congealed-I was worried
it would never be straight,
when I first went by. But
it did, in hindsight.) Unconciously, I fill out the trail behind me, filing new people. Immigrants and
time and population and so many feet widened and hardened it. Looking
forwards, I send out railroads and wagonloads-
tendrils, I read ahead to ready because
I want a textbook in my head.
Monday, November 29, 2010
If I am dead- read this
First of all, don't freak out. You're talking to a dead person- just like you probably are whenever you pick up a book written before 1950. I'm one of them now- I'll never get to tell you what I think about what happens tomorrow.
I don't really mind. I am happy and while I would have enjoyed all of the tomorrows, I enjoyed today. I tried my hardest to live every single day in every single day, not in any tomorrows. So don't feel sorry.
I am sorry though. If I have one regret right now, it's that my passing makes you sad. (Unless you had a tomorrow thing that you needed me for. That wasn't very smart, and I hope you learned from that.) So somehow I died- that's like if we were walking together, like we do, and an old friend came up and slapped me. I know the man, I forgive him. Don't be vicariously angry, or touch your own cheek in pain.
I hope I don't die anytime soon, but as a precaution I thought you should hear. I was never much for social norms that weren't any good. I'm dead. Get over it. I love you.
...yes, you.
I don't really mind. I am happy and while I would have enjoyed all of the tomorrows, I enjoyed today. I tried my hardest to live every single day in every single day, not in any tomorrows. So don't feel sorry.
I am sorry though. If I have one regret right now, it's that my passing makes you sad. (Unless you had a tomorrow thing that you needed me for. That wasn't very smart, and I hope you learned from that.) So somehow I died- that's like if we were walking together, like we do, and an old friend came up and slapped me. I know the man, I forgive him. Don't be vicariously angry, or touch your own cheek in pain.
I hope I don't die anytime soon, but as a precaution I thought you should hear. I was never much for social norms that weren't any good. I'm dead. Get over it. I love you.
...yes, you.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
God's sonic imprint (She and J)
J and I laughed at an inside joke-
haha God is a baritone haha
She didn't get it; leaning
over I said
God's voice isn't a baritone voice
What is it She
asked.
Have you ever plucked a piano string
(She was musically illiterate- the sound wasn't there)
J knew only because I had explained this before to her
but every time it was new- that's how I knew it was true.
I couldn't explain it to without breathing harder
It takes a moment- just a moment- to hear the sound of a piano
you press as hard as you can and it still takes the same moment
unless you can't hear that, or know it so well from playing.
She smiled. God's voice was a piano- a words piano, what a poet I am
Do you undertand? I asked
She said yes and I knew no
When I talk to God, the sound comes immediately.
I know God and I have no clue- it feels good to hear the hammer strike before physics catches up
that's music, I know,
She doesn't. J can't, J tries.
J's God isn't a piano.
She looked at me still, and I play her song.
haha God is a baritone haha
She didn't get it; leaning
over I said
God's voice isn't a baritone voice
What is it She
asked.
Have you ever plucked a piano string
(She was musically illiterate- the sound wasn't there)
J knew only because I had explained this before to her
but every time it was new- that's how I knew it was true.
I couldn't explain it to without breathing harder
It takes a moment- just a moment- to hear the sound of a piano
you press as hard as you can and it still takes the same moment
unless you can't hear that, or know it so well from playing.
She smiled. God's voice was a piano- a words piano, what a poet I am
Do you undertand? I asked
She said yes and I knew no
When I talk to God, the sound comes immediately.
I know God and I have no clue- it feels good to hear the hammer strike before physics catches up
that's music, I know,
She doesn't. J can't, J tries.
J's God isn't a piano.
She looked at me still, and I play her song.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
my mother's sweater
I borrowed my mom's
sweater.
I didn't notice the
"Visitor's Pass"
stuck on the front
from before.
sweater.
I didn't notice the
"Visitor's Pass"
stuck on the front
from before.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Referent
Mr. Scott,
I hope this isn't too confusing: I am thinking as I write. I know I sound darn silly and egoistic, but I'm just figuring this out conciously for the first time, and plus I don't think anyone can sound adequately humble when they're talking about enlightenment. I also assume everything I say you've heard before and better said, (see, I learn from my mistakes) but I'll continue for my own sake. Getting away from that self-awareness that Emerson labeled the root of all barriers to truth...
I finished the book and I believe I understand how my idea (that intuition is a natural substitute for education although both travel towards enlightenment) and yours (that enlightenment is a byproduct of of logic and is neither true nor logic's end) fit together. You might have made that connection because I mentioned those byproducts of... institutional logic? in how I introduced my idea. They hold water but not truth. But it's not just that, our ideas are related because they're reaching towards the same thing.
Okay so they're connected now. I'm going to give you what I gave a friend who I was trying to keep from cutting herself.
Now the conversation surrounding the drawing of this diagram isn't very important to our current discussion, but what is important is that I'm talking about enlightenment. Saying that in that particular instance would have ruined the situation (saying "understanding the world" almost did).
The conversation I had with my friend is important because she accused me of living in my head, and I know that's a dangerous place to be. So I realized that we both needed new ways of solving the big problem. This is why I am thinking about intuition.
I recognize that this destination of enlightenment takes quite a bit of faith to believe in, which I feel isn't your strong suit. Is your idea a perpendicular wall in my diagram? One of Pirsig's gumption traps? I don't know it enough to try thinking that one through. And I know you don't think of it that way, of course, but that's where you fit in on my diagram.
Of course I am not proposing a solution, I know I will be thinking about this until I am a nun and afterwards even, but how do I know that? Intuition. Which is where the book is going. Which is why the book is important to the both of us.
Mr. Scott, yesterday you were speaking yourself and you sounded sincere for the first time in this whole conversation about enlightenment. You weren't not playing the devil's advocate, I don't think. Scratch that actually. (Although it is true. I find you interesting and very likeable all of the time, but especially when I hear yourself in your voice) But forget about that.
The entire time I was talking with my friend I knew that our words were an important reference point for future thought and just growing up. I intuitively know this dialogue is important to my personal development. Let's continue. This was a very roundabout way of asking: can you explain what you mean?
I hope this isn't too confusing: I am thinking as I write. I know I sound darn silly and egoistic, but I'm just figuring this out conciously for the first time, and plus I don't think anyone can sound adequately humble when they're talking about enlightenment. I also assume everything I say you've heard before and better said, (see, I learn from my mistakes) but I'll continue for my own sake. Getting away from that self-awareness that Emerson labeled the root of all barriers to truth...
I finished the book and I believe I understand how my idea (that intuition is a natural substitute for education although both travel towards enlightenment) and yours (that enlightenment is a byproduct of of logic and is neither true nor logic's end) fit together. You might have made that connection because I mentioned those byproducts of... institutional logic? in how I introduced my idea. They hold water but not truth. But it's not just that, our ideas are related because they're reaching towards the same thing.
Okay so they're connected now. I'm going to give you what I gave a friend who I was trying to keep from cutting herself.
The conversation I had with my friend is important because she accused me of living in my head, and I know that's a dangerous place to be. So I realized that we both needed new ways of solving the big problem. This is why I am thinking about intuition.
I recognize that this destination of enlightenment takes quite a bit of faith to believe in, which I feel isn't your strong suit. Is your idea a perpendicular wall in my diagram? One of Pirsig's gumption traps? I don't know it enough to try thinking that one through. And I know you don't think of it that way, of course, but that's where you fit in on my diagram.
Of course I am not proposing a solution, I know I will be thinking about this until I am a nun and afterwards even, but how do I know that? Intuition. Which is where the book is going. Which is why the book is important to the both of us.
Mr. Scott, yesterday you were speaking yourself and you sounded sincere for the first time in this whole conversation about enlightenment. You weren't not playing the devil's advocate, I don't think. Scratch that actually. (Although it is true. I find you interesting and very likeable all of the time, but especially when I hear yourself in your voice) But forget about that.
The entire time I was talking with my friend I knew that our words were an important reference point for future thought and just growing up. I intuitively know this dialogue is important to my personal development. Let's continue. This was a very roundabout way of asking: can you explain what you mean?
Monday, October 11, 2010
the way to get life happy is
not to avoid making the bad choices
but to actively seek the good ones.
but to actively seek the good ones.
Monday, October 4, 2010
(For No Audience 2) Explanation!
The Audience:
Hey
Hey
I am right, now
Why?
Other people, people you respect, agree with me. And according to you, that makes me right.
I wouldn’t say that…
Then what? But I also understand…
That you have to be good at the bad things to let people know you are good at the good things?
They don’t see it anyway!
I know. And at first it doesn’t seem fair…
But the experience is important to being a good audience member and person.
Exactly.
But I still have my secret paper…
And there you can write this dialogue, Emily.
Thank you.
(For No Audience 1)
Overstimulation and “Phaedrus’ Quality”:
I’m a teenager right now and everyone from the people who write for TIME to my little brother have told me the ineffectuality of listening to music while I work- that it is a distraction from what I am trying to do. I believe them- it feels like the first time I drove a car. But I still do, sure that, like the first time I drove a car, it will only make me better at what I am attempting, whether writing a paper or doing calculus or comprehending. Sometimes I do it on purpose- because my head’s too full so I need to quiet them with louder music. And the science says that I just enjoy the overstimulation.
But I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and while it was not a “formative text for me” like it was for so many others, it made a connection. (By the way, it is nice for the vocabulary it provides for general talking about the subject, but really? Duh.)
Being at one with work
And thinking is something I do
And if I want to enjoy the work I am doing, I need to unplug myself.
In the precognitive moment I am the same, but twice so
And so only half of the cognition is possible.
I need to give the silence a chance, be at one and let that stimulate me,
But if I want to escape thought, I’m still good doing what I do. Because to achieve that oneness, there can’t be too much on one side.
1:1
I’m a teenager right now and everyone from the people who write for TIME to my little brother have told me the ineffectuality of listening to music while I work- that it is a distraction from what I am trying to do. I believe them- it feels like the first time I drove a car. But I still do, sure that, like the first time I drove a car, it will only make me better at what I am attempting, whether writing a paper or doing calculus or comprehending. Sometimes I do it on purpose- because my head’s too full so I need to quiet them with louder music. And the science says that I just enjoy the overstimulation.
But I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and while it was not a “formative text for me” like it was for so many others, it made a connection. (By the way, it is nice for the vocabulary it provides for general talking about the subject, but really? Duh.)
Being at one with work
And thinking is something I do
And if I want to enjoy the work I am doing, I need to unplug myself.
In the precognitive moment I am the same, but twice so
And so only half of the cognition is possible.
I need to give the silence a chance, be at one and let that stimulate me,
But if I want to escape thought, I’m still good doing what I do. Because to achieve that oneness, there can’t be too much on one side.
1:1
Sunday, September 12, 2010
silly adults
romanticizing childhood.
It's human to immagine what you can't have is better than what you do
(I think it's why we've survived for this long,
you know, it makes us work)
but just because your brains didn't hold much of
the sunny days when your clothes
were so adorably small
for posterity,
doesn't mean
they were as wonderful
as your editing minds make them out as.
Now, I dont have much to compare to,
but as soon as I do,
I'll have lost the first reference point
and on.
It's human to immagine what you can't have is better than what you do
(I think it's why we've survived for this long,
you know, it makes us work)
but just because your brains didn't hold much of
the sunny days when your clothes
were so adorably small
for posterity,
doesn't mean
they were as wonderful
as your editing minds make them out as.
Now, I dont have much to compare to,
but as soon as I do,
I'll have lost the first reference point
and on.
reading Fifth Business
Introduction
All right, I admit it- I've gotten to be an old person. When I was a child, my best friend and I would run around (when our legs were still good) and laugh at old people who said things like "when our legs were still good." it made us happy to laugh at something together, and I don't regret making fun of old people with Annie. I don't mind it when children laugh at me- actually, it makes me happy. I love remembering what it was like to laugh a child's laugh and hear her laugh with me.
She was just beautiful then: I never was. You would think I would be jealous of her, but I loved her too much. I still do, although we don't laugh as well now. She stopped being beautiful. Our faces are covered up by our oldness. Which is kind of why I'm writing a memoir. Maybe the wrinkles can fade a little for me.
Usually people begin their stories by introducing some wonderfully oversimplified theme- some lesson it has taken them their entire lives to learn. I'm not going to, but not because I haven't learned some hard lessons. I wish I could save you the pain of learning things firsthand, but that never works, so I wont bother. I just want to wish you a happy life and tell you about mine.
PS- I hope dearly that nobody's making you read this. I know schools make odd choices in books and this may once be in some English teacher's curriculum. I don't mind that, but I worked really hard living and living to tell the tale. Please don't have a bad attitude about listening to me- humor an old lady or skip it.
All right, I admit it- I've gotten to be an old person. When I was a child, my best friend and I would run around (when our legs were still good) and laugh at old people who said things like "when our legs were still good." it made us happy to laugh at something together, and I don't regret making fun of old people with Annie. I don't mind it when children laugh at me- actually, it makes me happy. I love remembering what it was like to laugh a child's laugh and hear her laugh with me.
She was just beautiful then: I never was. You would think I would be jealous of her, but I loved her too much. I still do, although we don't laugh as well now. She stopped being beautiful. Our faces are covered up by our oldness. Which is kind of why I'm writing a memoir. Maybe the wrinkles can fade a little for me.
Usually people begin their stories by introducing some wonderfully oversimplified theme- some lesson it has taken them their entire lives to learn. I'm not going to, but not because I haven't learned some hard lessons. I wish I could save you the pain of learning things firsthand, but that never works, so I wont bother. I just want to wish you a happy life and tell you about mine.
PS- I hope dearly that nobody's making you read this. I know schools make odd choices in books and this may once be in some English teacher's curriculum. I don't mind that, but I worked really hard living and living to tell the tale. Please don't have a bad attitude about listening to me- humor an old lady or skip it.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
It's hard to be a man.
Being human is tough.
We have these big brains that overthink everything
and we have all of these selfish desires and then this guilt that makes us feel horrible about them
and we want to be famous
and rich, and one-up everyone around us
and stick ourselves somewhere for others to ogle at,
and we like ogling.
Brains and overcooked sex drives and we grow hair in funny places
and we're easily distracted.
Being human is tough stuff, if you want to be good.
It's in streams of thought like this that I wonder why we're animal at all.
I mean, couldn't the intelligent life forms have been trees?
For once- trees! Or protists- long streams of algae that could sway out our ideas to each other.
I'm a human, an animal that communicates by vibrating parts of my throat.
Algae can't scream at its neighbor, or build a castle.
For some reason, God's image was put into THIS thing.
I'm staring at my arm-
God shouldn't have such thing as an arm,
that would be silly,
muscles up and down His legs and skin stretched over His spine.
We're quite the creation,
but why these bodies?
What's He saying?
I ask my left kneecap.
It's a pretty left kneecap,
but what does it mean?
We have these big brains that overthink everything
and we have all of these selfish desires and then this guilt that makes us feel horrible about them
and we want to be famous
and rich, and one-up everyone around us
and stick ourselves somewhere for others to ogle at,
and we like ogling.
Brains and overcooked sex drives and we grow hair in funny places
and we're easily distracted.
Being human is tough stuff, if you want to be good.
It's in streams of thought like this that I wonder why we're animal at all.
I mean, couldn't the intelligent life forms have been trees?
For once- trees! Or protists- long streams of algae that could sway out our ideas to each other.
I'm a human, an animal that communicates by vibrating parts of my throat.
Algae can't scream at its neighbor, or build a castle.
For some reason, God's image was put into THIS thing.
I'm staring at my arm-
God shouldn't have such thing as an arm,
that would be silly,
muscles up and down His legs and skin stretched over His spine.
We're quite the creation,
but why these bodies?
What's He saying?
I ask my left kneecap.
It's a pretty left kneecap,
but what does it mean?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wisdom?
It doesn't really matter what you come into certain films and books with-
the mystery novels, the spy movies with scantily clad women and lots of guns,
the sci-fi romances, the horror flicks.
I don't really care about understanding those movies either-
that's not their purpose.
The ones that make people think, the ones that make people cry,
the ones that make people give money to charities and get handwritten letters in Nigerian French...
those are the ones I want to understand, but I am incapable.
I'm missing a point of reference, I haven't read the introduction to the book. I don't get the emotional allusion.
Sometime between today and about five years from today, I will have gained what adults walk into those movies with, the breath they breathe on the first pages of books. I don't know what it is, but I will soon.
Do I want to?
the mystery novels, the spy movies with scantily clad women and lots of guns,
the sci-fi romances, the horror flicks.
I don't really care about understanding those movies either-
that's not their purpose.
The ones that make people think, the ones that make people cry,
the ones that make people give money to charities and get handwritten letters in Nigerian French...
those are the ones I want to understand, but I am incapable.
I'm missing a point of reference, I haven't read the introduction to the book. I don't get the emotional allusion.
Sometime between today and about five years from today, I will have gained what adults walk into those movies with, the breath they breathe on the first pages of books. I don't know what it is, but I will soon.
Do I want to?
(the little things)
i can imagine having a discussion with an old friend
or a guy in a coffeeshop
and we won't completely understand each other's words
but they will ask me what
what are you writing?
and I will just hand it to them
and maybe point out through the corner of my mouth that i'm not very good
or original, but i dont really care about either of those things.
and they will flip through my little book
and for some reason, i wont be embarassed that they are reading it all
in my handwriting.
they will ask what it means
and ask why dont i look at the deeper thing
that it points to?
all i want to show is the pretty finger pointing
and the vector
i don't care about what its pointing at
because that seems pretty obvious.
patterns are pretty obvious,
but freckles?
They might personify our new "infatuation" with Natural Beauty
or DNA and RNA and high seratonin levels and what it is to be a Man,
but all i wanted to say was
i like your freckles
they are pretty.
we're all so caught up in meaning
and something that resounds
globally.
i like the notes.
or a guy in a coffeeshop
and we won't completely understand each other's words
but they will ask me what
what are you writing?
and I will just hand it to them
and maybe point out through the corner of my mouth that i'm not very good
or original, but i dont really care about either of those things.
and they will flip through my little book
and for some reason, i wont be embarassed that they are reading it all
in my handwriting.
they will ask what it means
and ask why dont i look at the deeper thing
that it points to?
all i want to show is the pretty finger pointing
and the vector
i don't care about what its pointing at
because that seems pretty obvious.
patterns are pretty obvious,
but freckles?
They might personify our new "infatuation" with Natural Beauty
or DNA and RNA and high seratonin levels and what it is to be a Man,
but all i wanted to say was
i like your freckles
they are pretty.
we're all so caught up in meaning
and something that resounds
globally.
i like the notes.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The interest of my days- should there be any
He ran through the market with a high gloss
shoulders teembling rocking to side to side when his feet touched the ground
which wasn't often, I could think
but they seemed to overturn something with each
flying step
I would say hermetic, but that isn't the right word
his breath came in sputters and stops with his words
"SORRY
I'M
Late..."
and he ran past
late?
was it such a grand thing to be late?
shoulders teembling rocking to side to side when his feet touched the ground
which wasn't often, I could think
but they seemed to overturn something with each
flying step
I would say hermetic, but that isn't the right word
his breath came in sputters and stops with his words
"SORRY
I'M
Late..."
and he ran past
late?
was it such a grand thing to be late?
Friday, August 20, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Round
There is the sky
and there is the land
and they make a perfect round whole.
Sometimes the land seems
a flat pebble in a river,
sometimes the sky seems
a turtle's blue head, poking out through
the ceiling of trees.
Sometimes the land rakes through the clouds,
looking for gold,
and then the sun leads it in a bow.
It bows to the stars,
and shoots the moon to the sky to applaud.
Where did the stars go?
and there is the land
and they make a perfect round whole.
Sometimes the land seems
a flat pebble in a river,
sometimes the sky seems
a turtle's blue head, poking out through
the ceiling of trees.
Sometimes the land rakes through the clouds,
looking for gold,
and then the sun leads it in a bow.
It bows to the stars,
and shoots the moon to the sky to applaud.
Where did the stars go?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
My Child
whisky glass
painted egg
jewel case
newel post
hot air balloon
colorful
two tiny
waving
from the basket.
painted egg
jewel case
newel post
hot air balloon
colorful
two tiny
waving
from the basket.
I Will Know (2)
I want to engineer a train.
I will know
halls cities towns meetings
spiderwebs
catching beautiful dust
All the same,
(originals, of course)
flashing by.
I will know
halls cities towns meetings
spiderwebs
catching beautiful dust
All the same,
(originals, of course)
flashing by.
I Will Know (1)
I want to construct
so I will know
shingles on stone mansions
are icing on cake
and ephemeral.
so I will know
shingles on stone mansions
are icing on cake
and ephemeral.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Man In My Head
He was the only person who had never called me weird
He had ironed clothes and curly hair and a hint of a beard.
I can tell him anything, though I am no ear glutton-
for usually he talks to me
resting his feet
above his bellybutton.
"I have long since given it up, I realized today.
Trying to help real people understand the things I say."
His eyebrow raised above his eye, a personified protrusion
As if to say, as was his way,
"Now how did you
arrive at that conclusion?"
I've always read in story books that heroines keep journals.
I can't invest myself in looks, and I'm strictly diurnal,
So if I want to heroine myself, (I'm told that's right)
My two choices to get the boys,
are to scribble,
or party every night.
(Although I don't understand why,
the correlation's too strong to deny)
"Just, I can't open myself up, not even to a pen.
And trying only tells me that I'll never write the end.
But really, nothing's wrong with never finishing a story
Continuing this silly thing
Might not be real,
but it will not be boring."
(Although I like I-R-L friends,
they always want to hear "The End.")
So I think I'll keep talking to that man who's in my head.
Those conversations are exciting, though never reread.
My kindly man listens better than any boy I've dated.
Speaking of me, reality
is contrary
and slightly overrated.
I could explain this all away and into trenches fall,
"Or I could just explain to you,
and then that would be all."
He had ironed clothes and curly hair and a hint of a beard.
I can tell him anything, though I am no ear glutton-
for usually he talks to me
resting his feet
above his bellybutton.
"I have long since given it up, I realized today.
Trying to help real people understand the things I say."
His eyebrow raised above his eye, a personified protrusion
As if to say, as was his way,
"Now how did you
arrive at that conclusion?"
I've always read in story books that heroines keep journals.
I can't invest myself in looks, and I'm strictly diurnal,
So if I want to heroine myself, (I'm told that's right)
My two choices to get the boys,
are to scribble,
or party every night.
(Although I don't understand why,
the correlation's too strong to deny)
"Just, I can't open myself up, not even to a pen.
And trying only tells me that I'll never write the end.
But really, nothing's wrong with never finishing a story
Continuing this silly thing
Might not be real,
but it will not be boring."
(Although I like I-R-L friends,
they always want to hear "The End.")
So I think I'll keep talking to that man who's in my head.
Those conversations are exciting, though never reread.
My kindly man listens better than any boy I've dated.
Speaking of me, reality
is contrary
and slightly overrated.
I could explain this all away and into trenches fall,
"Or I could just explain to you,
and then that would be all."
16
i know why men are superstitious.
one year ago today
i was very
very
sick.
and i blew out the candles on my birthday cake
and everyone ate it.
(superstitious)
and what a terrible year i had.
i wonder how today will go.
and
it frightens me
one year ago today
i was very
very
sick.
and i blew out the candles on my birthday cake
and everyone ate it.
(superstitious)
and what a terrible year i had.
i wonder how today will go.
and
it frightens me
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Roses.
I was brilliant
like picking a stubborn rose
and pricking my lovely fingers
I was gentle
like stoking a soft, dying rose
with my lovely fingers
I was dead
I buried the rose
soil on my lovely fingers.
"How could you?" I asked her- she bandaged my pricked fingers.
"How could you?" I asked him- he put my dying rose in water.
"How could you?" I asked myself.
like picking a stubborn rose
and pricking my lovely fingers
I was gentle
like stoking a soft, dying rose
with my lovely fingers
I was dead
I buried the rose
soil on my lovely fingers.
"How could you?" I asked her- she bandaged my pricked fingers.
"How could you?" I asked him- he put my dying rose in water.
"How could you?" I asked myself.
what to wish for
i have come to realize
that i approach life
with the assumption
that i will fail
but not very badly;
with the assumption
that i will try
very badly;
with the assumption
that i am objective
that i need to be;
with the assumption
that no one will like me
for good reason;
with the assumption
that tomorrow things will be better
but life is a string of todays;
with the assumption
that the future is unalterable
yet written in sand;
with the assumption
that i will be great someday
and no one will know;
and i wont care because
great
people
don't.
i throw pennies into wishing wells
with the assumption
that the penny
and ninety-nine prettier pennies
can be drawn up again
and made into a dollar.
although i am but a penny
in a world of golden ceasars
i can make a dollar.
(i assume)
that i approach life
with the assumption
that i will fail
but not very badly;
with the assumption
that i will try
very badly;
with the assumption
that i am objective
that i need to be;
with the assumption
that no one will like me
for good reason;
with the assumption
that tomorrow things will be better
but life is a string of todays;
with the assumption
that the future is unalterable
yet written in sand;
with the assumption
that i will be great someday
and no one will know;
and i wont care because
great
people
don't.
i throw pennies into wishing wells
with the assumption
that the penny
and ninety-nine prettier pennies
can be drawn up again
and made into a dollar.
although i am but a penny
in a world of golden ceasars
i can make a dollar.
(i assume)
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
I know exactly what you mean,
I know exactly what you mean,
i say- for
your fingers
reached around my ribcage
and tapped
a cymbal
and a gong
in my unexplored
resevoirs.
(beat)
i say- for
your fingers
reached around my ribcage
and tapped
a cymbal
and a gong
in my unexplored
resevoirs.
(beat)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Do I sound self-important? Eew.
Hey! We don't really know each other but I get your poetry posts. I'm making a book for my personal project this summer and I'm just confused about one thing. I don't understand where commas and periods and capital letters are supposed to go in a poem. Is there like a rul that periods go at the end of each stanza or something? It's been so long since we went all over this in school.
Well if you can help I'd be so grateful.
You're a great poet and I can't wait to read more of your work!
Thanks,
Olivia
***
Olivia,
I don't know where I know you from. I'm glad you like my posts! But to answer your question-
The whole point of poetry, especially modern poetry, is being able to say what you want however you want. Great poets (I mean the really good ones) watch every comma and period and capital because it all has to mean something- punctuation has a lot to do with how a poem flows.
If you want an example of a great poet using capitals and punctuation really well, read this poem - http://lovepoems.yu-hu.com/cummings/since_feeling_is_first.shtml Do you see how he only uses 3 capital letters? One is to make Spring feel like a person, another is to replace quotation marks, and the last one, the And, is to make sure we know this is the concluding line. He doesn't use punctuation marks at all in the normal way- to separate ideas he puts them on different lines. Where he does use punctuation it's to show where natural pauses go, and also to change meaning a little bit.
Here's another example-
Say we made up a haiku.
Olivia, you
typed to me across the sea-
Commas? Capitals?
Now, if we wanted to change the meaning-
Olivia? You
typed to me! Across the sea;
commas, capitals
and it would completely change the meaning. Before it sounded like you were making an inquiry, now it sounds like I'm excited to see you again, no matter what we talk about. And there, were only using capitals because we were starting sentences. We could maybe do-
OLIVIA! you
typed- to me. ACROSS (the sea)
: commas ; capitals :
Then we would be using the first capitals to make me sound like I'm yelling, and the other ones to quote your typing. I'm not even pretending like this one could make any sense at all :P
I hope I showed you that the little differences do matter- but that the only rule is do what you want. Now, if you're writing a more formal poem you might have to pay more attention to sentences and the punctuation that goes with it, but in most poetry you're okay as long as you're happy with what you've written.
I hope this helped a little bit- I would love to read some of your poems!
-Emily
Well if you can help I'd be so grateful.
You're a great poet and I can't wait to read more of your work!
Thanks,
Olivia
***
Olivia,
I don't know where I know you from. I'm glad you like my posts! But to answer your question-
The whole point of poetry, especially modern poetry, is being able to say what you want however you want. Great poets (I mean the really good ones) watch every comma and period and capital because it all has to mean something- punctuation has a lot to do with how a poem flows.
If you want an example of a great poet using capitals and punctuation really well, read this poem - http://lovepoems.yu-hu.com/cummings/since_feeling_is_first.shtml Do you see how he only uses 3 capital letters? One is to make Spring feel like a person, another is to replace quotation marks, and the last one, the And, is to make sure we know this is the concluding line. He doesn't use punctuation marks at all in the normal way- to separate ideas he puts them on different lines. Where he does use punctuation it's to show where natural pauses go, and also to change meaning a little bit.
Here's another example-
Say we made up a haiku.
Olivia, you
typed to me across the sea-
Commas? Capitals?
Now, if we wanted to change the meaning-
Olivia? You
typed to me! Across the sea;
commas, capitals
and it would completely change the meaning. Before it sounded like you were making an inquiry, now it sounds like I'm excited to see you again, no matter what we talk about. And there, were only using capitals because we were starting sentences. We could maybe do-
OLIVIA! you
typed- to me. ACROSS (the sea)
: commas ; capitals :
Then we would be using the first capitals to make me sound like I'm yelling, and the other ones to quote your typing. I'm not even pretending like this one could make any sense at all :P
I hope I showed you that the little differences do matter- but that the only rule is do what you want. Now, if you're writing a more formal poem you might have to pay more attention to sentences and the punctuation that goes with it, but in most poetry you're okay as long as you're happy with what you've written.
I hope this helped a little bit- I would love to read some of your poems!
-Emily
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Prayer for the day.
Dear God,
I know you can be both nice and mean.
But I was surprised when you handed me candy
just to take it away again
I guess I needed the lesson
but
God.
I know you can be both nice and mean.
But I was surprised when you handed me candy
just to take it away again
I guess I needed the lesson
but
God.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
hey hey hey wanna do me a favor?
For all three of you reading this, sign up and vote and favorite! |
| Submission of Awesomeness from coolstudyguides on Take180.com |
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I have lost all desire
to speak my own words- maybe
they've finally
beat me.
I guess I'll go read now
what someone else wrote.
I bet they finally found
something that made them proud.
Just posting so I wont lose it- when computers crash and paper burns.
I couldn't take a picture,
so I'm writing this instead.
We passed a mountain two miles back
that looked like a bald head.
but we traveled by too fast
and I don't think that the cool part was
the clearing or the grass.
The interesting thing wasn't
simply the image- no,
what struck me was that there, the trees
decided not to grow.
I guess I couldn't say all this
in a color photo.
My camera decided not to work,
and rightly so.
(
)
)Monday, June 14, 2010
I Spy
Sometimes people ask why everyone in my family is so SMART.
Thing is,
I don't think we are
especially intelligent.
We've just been weathered.
(...get it?)
For example, that calendar begs the question- "What exactly is a fractal?" 
and Danny was just trying to be like his big brothers and their chemistry homework- he wanted a Periodic Table of his very own. How could any mom say no to THAT request? 
Old projects still teach. Old maps frequently change. 
and it's hard to understand what's going on in the world if you don't know what it looks like. It's not oppressive either- it's tasteful.
No, no... you're thinking of the wrong taste buds.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Seems to me I'm wasting time.
The grass is made of sugar
and the flowers sing to me
but it feels like for a while now
I've ben up a wooden tree.
and the flowers sing to me
but it feels like for a while now
I've ben up a wooden tree.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Love is a potato.
Have you ever seen a potato grow?
Have you ever seen a grown potato?
Have you ever fallen in love?
When I was little, I watched a television show called ZOOM. They always had a segment
where a guy in bright blue denimn overalls taught an at-home science experiment.
Once, he taught me how to build a potato obstacle course- a cardboard box with a hole in one end.
The gist of it is, the potato's single-minded little tendrils
go around, through
and over all of the obstacles
and finally our hero finds the light source
after about a month and a half.
Which seems to me a long time for an at-home science experiment.
Right now, I am laying in my bed with the quilt pulled up to my ears
(right next to the sides of my smile)
because after two hours of Julie Andrews and nuns and singing children,
the potato found the sun.
Have you ever seen a grown potato?
Have you ever fallen in love?
When I was little, I watched a television show called ZOOM. They always had a segment
where a guy in bright blue denimn overalls taught an at-home science experiment.
Once, he taught me how to build a potato obstacle course- a cardboard box with a hole in one end.
The gist of it is, the potato's single-minded little tendrils
go around, through
and over all of the obstacles
and finally our hero finds the light source
after about a month and a half.
Which seems to me a long time for an at-home science experiment.
Right now, I am laying in my bed with the quilt pulled up to my ears
(right next to the sides of my smile)
because after two hours of Julie Andrews and nuns and singing children,
the potato found the sun.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
So all at one time
I know what's right
I see the right ones flashing
I'm one big crime.
I could be fixed up
I might look so dashing
But dashing to you
and dashing to me
aren't always the same thing.
-----
So all in one thought
I want you to love me
I don't want to slip
off my horse
But that can not
mean making myself
something that flows
the wrong course.
It might seem all good
for the first moment
But I'll hate myself tomorrow.
Not for the act; for the follow.
It seems wrong to you
It's prideful, I know
but I can't take any way
just cause you want me to go.
---
You know, it may be the right.
But the only way I'll ever realize
is if you let me
open my eyes.
I see the right ones flashing
I'm one big crime.
I could be fixed up
I might look so dashing
But dashing to you
and dashing to me
aren't always the same thing.
-----
So all in one thought
I want you to love me
I don't want to slip
off my horse
But that can not
mean making myself
something that flows
the wrong course.
It might seem all good
for the first moment
But I'll hate myself tomorrow.
Not for the act; for the follow.
It seems wrong to you
It's prideful, I know
but I can't take any way
just cause you want me to go.
---
You know, it may be the right.
But the only way I'll ever realize
is if you let me
open my eyes.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
-thank-you-
Emily,
"Hate" is a strong word. Perhaps you should rethink using it so vehemently. Contrary to your feelings about the class, I enjoyed having you in it. Your poetry was inspirational to read. Your comments during literary discussions was helpful and insightful and your portrayal of Roxane was right on. In the future, try to think of english classes as just another pathway to information- some weeds along the way, but maybe a few flowers too.
Mrs. Goodloe
"Hate" is a strong word. Perhaps you should rethink using it so vehemently. Contrary to your feelings about the class, I enjoyed having you in it. Your poetry was inspirational to read. Your comments during literary discussions was helpful and insightful and your portrayal of Roxane was right on. In the future, try to think of english classes as just another pathway to information- some weeds along the way, but maybe a few flowers too.
Mrs. Goodloe
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
YEAH! FAILING TESTS TOMORROW!
THE INFERNO- quickest summary EVER
So the story starts out with Dante in the dark wood of error.
He decides he’s going to change, so he tries to climb up this hill, but the leopard of malice and fraud, the she-wolf of incontinence, and the lion of violence and ambition stop him. Then Virgil, the famous poet, finds him and leads him to the gates of Hell cause that’s the only other way to get where he wants to go. Dante’s kind of freaking out about not being worthy enough. Three ladies from Heaven come and greet them, to help Dante out a bit. Beatrice, his love, and her good friends Saint Lucia and the Virgin Mary all say hello and bless Dante. They walk through the gate of Hell (it says “ABANDON ALL HOPE”) and they can hear the wailings of souls in torment. Then they’re in the vestibule of Hell with the opportunists- people who did not choose good or evil, and also the angels who didn’t pick a side in the War in Heaven. They get to the Acheron, the first river of Hell. Old man Cheron’s the ferryman. Dante faints as a kind of segue.
They get to the first Circle of Hell, made for the people who either were born before Jesus or who didn’t embrace him later. It also houses the great heathen thinkers like Virgil, Euclid, Ptolemy, and Homer, who can hang out there in relative comfort.
The second circle is that of the Carnals… the people who just COULDN’T wait till marriage. Also called the Lustfuls. They’re in a cyclone. A bunch of famous lovers are there. Minos from Greek mythology is there too- he assigns everyone who passes their punishment. He whips the sinners with his tail-once for every level they must go down. Dante faints again cause he feels bad for Paolo and Francesca (from Ovid’s Metamorphoses). The Inferno is packed with fictional characters.
The Third Circle of Hell is for the gluttons. They’re guarded by Cerberus, a three-headed dog like in Harry Potter. The sinners are showering in excrement. Dante sees Ciacco the Hog, another Florentine. They chat about politics.
The fourth Circle is for the Hoarders and the Wasters, with their big rocks symbolizing the weight of money. Their faces are gone cause they let money rule who they were. They’re guarded by Plutus, a demon.
The fifth circle is for the Wrathful and the Sullen. They’re in the marsh of Styx, the second waterway of Hell. The wrathful are wrestling in the mud, and the sullen are being downers and chanting the medieval equivalent of emo music while they choke and get stepped on.
Phlegyas, a pyromaniac from Greek mythology, talks to them from his flaming tower then ferries them across the Styx, because he’s the boatman. From the boat, Dante recognized his old acquaintance Fillipo Argenti, and has no pity for the sinner. Virgil looks upon Dante’s hardening heart with approval.
Outside of the city of Dis, the poets meet Medusa and the Furies. An angel messenger comes and helps them get through the fallen angel guards. The heretical and sacrilegious are stuck in tombs of fire. Farinata and Calvacante de Calvacanti talk to Dante about the living.
As they walk into the seventh circle, Dante and Virgil smell something so awful they have to sit on a Pope to handle it. A Pope’s grave, that is. They talk about the levels of sinning, and why God hates usury more than premarital relations. Going into the circle, they meet the Minotaur, but they’re able to sneak past him. They come to the river of blood, the Phlegython, punishing those violent against their neighbors. Centaurs with bows shoot the sinners trying to better their position in Hell and come up for air. The centaur’s leader, Chiron, (not Cheron, the ferryman, but ChEEron) appoints another centaur, Nessus, to be Dante’s mount in this circle.
The second round of the seventh circle is for those violent against themselves. They’re trees. Dante breaks a branch off a tree and the tree speaks to him. This is a perfect metaphor for the fact that the suicidal express themselves in life through their own destruction. Harpies, woman-birds, peck at the trees. Vicious dogs eat a guy named Jacomo.
The third round of the seventh circle is a big desert wasteland with fire raining down on everybody. This is for three kinds of people. Dante sees the blasphemers, violent against God, who lie down on the hot sand. Sodomites, violent against nature, have to walk around forever in the raining fire. Usurers, violent against art, have big purses with their family crests blazed on that they have to stare at. Virgil explains about the Old Man of Crete, a statue that cries about how far humanity has fallen. Brunetto Latini, a sodomite, recognizes Dante, but Dante dismisses him. Dante is wearing this cord as a belt and Virgil takes it and throws it into a pit. A huge monster named Geryon is summoned and chats with Virgil for a while.
Dante climbs onto Geryon’s back and they descend into the eighth circle.
The Eighth Circle, also known as Malebolge, is a group of ten concentric pits, each for a different type of fraud. Really fast-
1 is for pimps and seducers
2 is for the flatterers
3 is for simoniacs- power abusers
4 is for fortune-tellers
5 is for grafters, swimming in pitch
6 is lead-clothed hippocrites
7 is for snake-covered thieves
8 is evil counselors- driven by greed
9 is sowers of discord-
Religious, political, and Bertrand de Born
10 is for the falsifiers-
Cause nobody trusted them, their senses are liars.
They’re made up of alchemists, evil impersonators
Counterfeiters, and true witness haters.
Now we’re heading down to Circle Nine-
I’m done with rhyming- I hope that’s fine.
They continue down to the edge of a circular pit- the final circle of Hell, the edge of which is populated by giants. Antaneus, a giant, takes them down to where the Traitors spend their eternities.
Circle Nine is called Cocytus, the final waterway of hell. It’s a frozen set of concentric circles with Satan in the middle. The outer circle, Caina (like Cain and Abel) is for traitors to kin. The second ring is called Antenora, after Antenor, a Trojan warrior who betrayed his army to Spartan ambassadors. They were warring with Sparta, so that was bad. In Antenora, those who betrayed their homeland or political party are frozen. Dante sees Ugulino chewing on Rugieri here. Then there’s Ptolomea, after Ptolomy, an Egyptian king who slew his guest Pompey. This circle is for those treacherous to guests and hosts. They’re pretty much all frozen over. Judecca is the middle circle. It’s named after Judas Iscariot, Jesus’ disciple who betrayed him to Pontius Pilate. This circle is for those treacherous against their masters. They’re completely submerged in ice.
The center circle is Satan. He’s huge, smelly, with three heads, and two bat-like wings under each head. He’s chewing on Brutus, Cassius, and Judas all at the same time. Satan’s hairy torso sticks out from the ice. The cold flap of his wings keeps Cocytus frozen.
Dante and Virgil climb down The Devil’s leg, then the whole world like… flips around, then they’re facing up again. Dante is understandably confused. It’s actually… symbolic. Then the pair climbs down again and find themselves next to Satan’s hairy legs in this hollow at the center of the earth. There’s a little stream running through, called the Lethe. It’s the river of forgetfulness. And that’s the end of the book!
So the story starts out with Dante in the dark wood of error.
He decides he’s going to change, so he tries to climb up this hill, but the leopard of malice and fraud, the she-wolf of incontinence, and the lion of violence and ambition stop him. Then Virgil, the famous poet, finds him and leads him to the gates of Hell cause that’s the only other way to get where he wants to go. Dante’s kind of freaking out about not being worthy enough. Three ladies from Heaven come and greet them, to help Dante out a bit. Beatrice, his love, and her good friends Saint Lucia and the Virgin Mary all say hello and bless Dante. They walk through the gate of Hell (it says “ABANDON ALL HOPE”) and they can hear the wailings of souls in torment. Then they’re in the vestibule of Hell with the opportunists- people who did not choose good or evil, and also the angels who didn’t pick a side in the War in Heaven. They get to the Acheron, the first river of Hell. Old man Cheron’s the ferryman. Dante faints as a kind of segue.
They get to the first Circle of Hell, made for the people who either were born before Jesus or who didn’t embrace him later. It also houses the great heathen thinkers like Virgil, Euclid, Ptolemy, and Homer, who can hang out there in relative comfort.
The second circle is that of the Carnals… the people who just COULDN’T wait till marriage. Also called the Lustfuls. They’re in a cyclone. A bunch of famous lovers are there. Minos from Greek mythology is there too- he assigns everyone who passes their punishment. He whips the sinners with his tail-once for every level they must go down. Dante faints again cause he feels bad for Paolo and Francesca (from Ovid’s Metamorphoses). The Inferno is packed with fictional characters.
The Third Circle of Hell is for the gluttons. They’re guarded by Cerberus, a three-headed dog like in Harry Potter. The sinners are showering in excrement. Dante sees Ciacco the Hog, another Florentine. They chat about politics.
The fourth Circle is for the Hoarders and the Wasters, with their big rocks symbolizing the weight of money. Their faces are gone cause they let money rule who they were. They’re guarded by Plutus, a demon.
The fifth circle is for the Wrathful and the Sullen. They’re in the marsh of Styx, the second waterway of Hell. The wrathful are wrestling in the mud, and the sullen are being downers and chanting the medieval equivalent of emo music while they choke and get stepped on.
Phlegyas, a pyromaniac from Greek mythology, talks to them from his flaming tower then ferries them across the Styx, because he’s the boatman. From the boat, Dante recognized his old acquaintance Fillipo Argenti, and has no pity for the sinner. Virgil looks upon Dante’s hardening heart with approval.
Outside of the city of Dis, the poets meet Medusa and the Furies. An angel messenger comes and helps them get through the fallen angel guards. The heretical and sacrilegious are stuck in tombs of fire. Farinata and Calvacante de Calvacanti talk to Dante about the living.
As they walk into the seventh circle, Dante and Virgil smell something so awful they have to sit on a Pope to handle it. A Pope’s grave, that is. They talk about the levels of sinning, and why God hates usury more than premarital relations. Going into the circle, they meet the Minotaur, but they’re able to sneak past him. They come to the river of blood, the Phlegython, punishing those violent against their neighbors. Centaurs with bows shoot the sinners trying to better their position in Hell and come up for air. The centaur’s leader, Chiron, (not Cheron, the ferryman, but ChEEron) appoints another centaur, Nessus, to be Dante’s mount in this circle.
The second round of the seventh circle is for those violent against themselves. They’re trees. Dante breaks a branch off a tree and the tree speaks to him. This is a perfect metaphor for the fact that the suicidal express themselves in life through their own destruction. Harpies, woman-birds, peck at the trees. Vicious dogs eat a guy named Jacomo.
The third round of the seventh circle is a big desert wasteland with fire raining down on everybody. This is for three kinds of people. Dante sees the blasphemers, violent against God, who lie down on the hot sand. Sodomites, violent against nature, have to walk around forever in the raining fire. Usurers, violent against art, have big purses with their family crests blazed on that they have to stare at. Virgil explains about the Old Man of Crete, a statue that cries about how far humanity has fallen. Brunetto Latini, a sodomite, recognizes Dante, but Dante dismisses him. Dante is wearing this cord as a belt and Virgil takes it and throws it into a pit. A huge monster named Geryon is summoned and chats with Virgil for a while.
Dante climbs onto Geryon’s back and they descend into the eighth circle.
The Eighth Circle, also known as Malebolge, is a group of ten concentric pits, each for a different type of fraud. Really fast-
1 is for pimps and seducers
2 is for the flatterers
3 is for simoniacs- power abusers
4 is for fortune-tellers
5 is for grafters, swimming in pitch
6 is lead-clothed hippocrites
7 is for snake-covered thieves
8 is evil counselors- driven by greed
9 is sowers of discord-
Religious, political, and Bertrand de Born
10 is for the falsifiers-
Cause nobody trusted them, their senses are liars.
They’re made up of alchemists, evil impersonators
Counterfeiters, and true witness haters.
Now we’re heading down to Circle Nine-
I’m done with rhyming- I hope that’s fine.
They continue down to the edge of a circular pit- the final circle of Hell, the edge of which is populated by giants. Antaneus, a giant, takes them down to where the Traitors spend their eternities.
Circle Nine is called Cocytus, the final waterway of hell. It’s a frozen set of concentric circles with Satan in the middle. The outer circle, Caina (like Cain and Abel) is for traitors to kin. The second ring is called Antenora, after Antenor, a Trojan warrior who betrayed his army to Spartan ambassadors. They were warring with Sparta, so that was bad. In Antenora, those who betrayed their homeland or political party are frozen. Dante sees Ugulino chewing on Rugieri here. Then there’s Ptolomea, after Ptolomy, an Egyptian king who slew his guest Pompey. This circle is for those treacherous to guests and hosts. They’re pretty much all frozen over. Judecca is the middle circle. It’s named after Judas Iscariot, Jesus’ disciple who betrayed him to Pontius Pilate. This circle is for those treacherous against their masters. They’re completely submerged in ice.
The center circle is Satan. He’s huge, smelly, with three heads, and two bat-like wings under each head. He’s chewing on Brutus, Cassius, and Judas all at the same time. Satan’s hairy torso sticks out from the ice. The cold flap of his wings keeps Cocytus frozen.
Dante and Virgil climb down The Devil’s leg, then the whole world like… flips around, then they’re facing up again. Dante is understandably confused. It’s actually… symbolic. Then the pair climbs down again and find themselves next to Satan’s hairy legs in this hollow at the center of the earth. There’s a little stream running through, called the Lethe. It’s the river of forgetfulness. And that’s the end of the book!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Okay, look.
I love you to death. And part of loving a person is caring when they're sad.
Another part is helping them up. And sometimes they feel like you're pushing them down. But I have to try.
So here goes-
I have never been a person who shared their boy muck with anyone. Too many mean, laughing faces from when I was a child. I just don't do that.
That doesn't mean I don't understand what you're doing.
So- you know this boy. You LOVE this boy. So you pull a pre-teen. To impress him, you go out of your way to look normal. Look like every other girl out there, to the boy who you want to notice you.
Because every girl is pretty. Every girl has friends. Every girl laughs and wears pretty clothes. The person you're showing to him just can't stand up to the others. The real pretty-girls.
But you're forgetting something.
You are a beautiful person. If this boy saw you through my eyes, he would notice you. If you let him. But you're scared to, in case he doesn't like it. You would rather him see a fake, made-up, cold hearted girl he only sort of knows?
Grow up. Man up. Don't play princess. You know, grown-ups date. They strip, jump off a cliff, and hold hands on the way down. Or they fall. Sometimes thay fall, naked and humiliated. But hey. You're stuck in your little tower, expecting him to climb the ivy you most considerately glittered and thorned.
Then there's this other thing you've got going on.
I've been chatting with Him, and it seems God is offended. You're using His name to feel sorry for yourself. He gave you all these nice things, and you throw them away. He gave you this boy, and you ignore him cause you're scared. Shoot, he's probably helping me out, writing this letter (I'm certainly asking Him to) and you probably wont take this to heart.
I know you want to sing His name in praise. Why are you dragging it through the mud first?
And it's all over this boy. Hell, I like this boy, he's good for you. And I'm going to be sad, when you finally get him and you can't enjoy it from all the blood you spilled on your way.
Another part is helping them up. And sometimes they feel like you're pushing them down. But I have to try.
So here goes-
I have never been a person who shared their boy muck with anyone. Too many mean, laughing faces from when I was a child. I just don't do that.
That doesn't mean I don't understand what you're doing.
So- you know this boy. You LOVE this boy. So you pull a pre-teen. To impress him, you go out of your way to look normal. Look like every other girl out there, to the boy who you want to notice you.
Because every girl is pretty. Every girl has friends. Every girl laughs and wears pretty clothes. The person you're showing to him just can't stand up to the others. The real pretty-girls.
But you're forgetting something.
You are a beautiful person. If this boy saw you through my eyes, he would notice you. If you let him. But you're scared to, in case he doesn't like it. You would rather him see a fake, made-up, cold hearted girl he only sort of knows?
Grow up. Man up. Don't play princess. You know, grown-ups date. They strip, jump off a cliff, and hold hands on the way down. Or they fall. Sometimes thay fall, naked and humiliated. But hey. You're stuck in your little tower, expecting him to climb the ivy you most considerately glittered and thorned.
Then there's this other thing you've got going on.
I've been chatting with Him, and it seems God is offended. You're using His name to feel sorry for yourself. He gave you all these nice things, and you throw them away. He gave you this boy, and you ignore him cause you're scared. Shoot, he's probably helping me out, writing this letter (I'm certainly asking Him to) and you probably wont take this to heart.
I know you want to sing His name in praise. Why are you dragging it through the mud first?
And it's all over this boy. Hell, I like this boy, he's good for you. And I'm going to be sad, when you finally get him and you can't enjoy it from all the blood you spilled on your way.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I didn't do anything today
cause I suck.
I guess I could try doing something. I bet I could love it and care about it. I bet I could hang myself up on my success. I bet I could be "acceptable".
That's it, though, acceptable.
I guess I might eventually be
...acceptable at everything.
if I give it my all.
I guess I wouldn't stink at anything. I would have just given my all for a fifth-place trophy though.
awesome. acceptable.
...cause simply "acceptable" people rule the world...
I guess I could try doing something. I bet I could love it and care about it. I bet I could hang myself up on my success. I bet I could be "acceptable".
That's it, though, acceptable.
I guess I might eventually be
...acceptable at everything.
if I give it my all.
I guess I wouldn't stink at anything. I would have just given my all for a fifth-place trophy though.
awesome. acceptable.
...cause simply "acceptable" people rule the world...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
leericks.
Splitting up is breaking down
we're disintegrating
I don't think that you recall how
we started-
now we're breaking-
down.
I can be your memories
and you can be my brain
cause you need help remembering
and I need help-
staying-
sane.
we're disintegrating
I don't think that you recall how
we started-
now we're breaking-
down.
I can be your memories
and you can be my brain
cause you need help remembering
and I need help-
staying-
sane.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
nitpicking makes you uncool.
You know you need to grow up when
Today I tried to convince my brother that
He was writing a nice story but
It was very immaginative... alas
I never used to say to myself
I hated it when people said
They were just listening to someone else's voice in their head when they went
I could understand it, so why did I say
THAT'S CALLED A PLOTHOLE
.
!
:
;
...
-
"
?
!
Today I tried to convince my brother that
He was writing a nice story but
It was very immaginative... alas
I never used to say to myself
I hated it when people said
They were just listening to someone else's voice in their head when they went
I could understand it, so why did I say
THAT'S CALLED A PLOTHOLE
.
!
:
;
...
-
"
?
!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Project
There’s this girl named Latifa who lived in Afghanistan
And she couldn’t find a husband because of the Taliban
The one time she needed love- she couldn’t find a man
‘Cause they said “Keep your face covered
Because it’s in the Koran!”
The soldier called her Susie ‘cause her eyes were pretty black
Now she could write him letters but he couldn’t write them back.
She knew he was off fighting for the grand ‘ol USA
But the empty mailbox hurt her cause she saw it every day.
Annie couldn’t understand why boys had to be so mean
‘Cause all they saw in Annie was a teenage beauty queen.
She “wanted the top half of him” as my Annie would say
She was weary, tired of waiting for true love to come her way.
I listen and I understand- they steel themselves and trudge
I know all of their stories but my sturdy heart wont budge
We’ve all got things that’re in the way- we feel helpless and small
My biggest problem is that I can’t seem to love at all,
Latifa, Annie, Susie, I can’t seem to love at all ;
Can I call on you to help me cause I cannot love at all…
And she couldn’t find a husband because of the Taliban
The one time she needed love- she couldn’t find a man
‘Cause they said “Keep your face covered
Because it’s in the Koran!”
The soldier called her Susie ‘cause her eyes were pretty black
Now she could write him letters but he couldn’t write them back.
She knew he was off fighting for the grand ‘ol USA
But the empty mailbox hurt her cause she saw it every day.
Annie couldn’t understand why boys had to be so mean
‘Cause all they saw in Annie was a teenage beauty queen.
She “wanted the top half of him” as my Annie would say
She was weary, tired of waiting for true love to come her way.
I listen and I understand- they steel themselves and trudge
I know all of their stories but my sturdy heart wont budge
We’ve all got things that’re in the way- we feel helpless and small
My biggest problem is that I can’t seem to love at all,
Latifa, Annie, Susie, I can’t seem to love at all ;
Can I call on you to help me cause I cannot love at all…
Monday, April 26, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Earth Hour
Today it was 9pm
and I realized that I had better change the world.
I usually don't break promises,
and I promised Mother Earth today
that me studying would eventually make up for the electricity
in the long run.
It's not that I don't care.
It's an investment.
I didn't realize until today
that promises
make you debtors.
And human accomplishemnts
don't replenish Nature's coffers.
We should tell everyone.
Except that they'll probably act like me...
I had better make that change
or I'll become the person I least want to be.
and I realized that I had better change the world.
I usually don't break promises,
and I promised Mother Earth today
that me studying would eventually make up for the electricity
in the long run.
It's not that I don't care.
It's an investment.
I didn't realize until today
that promises
make you debtors.
And human accomplishemnts
don't replenish Nature's coffers.
We should tell everyone.
Except that they'll probably act like me...
I had better make that change
or I'll become the person I least want to be.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Baby
My daddy heard about my day
he came to see me in my room
I didn't turn around, but heard his breathing
staring at his baby.
He leaned one elbow on the bed
and held my middle tight
and I couldn't turn to look at him
so I looked out the window
I wasn't that upset today,
but I never ask for much.
My daddy wished he could see me
with everything I wanted.
I said "you're sadder than I am"
and his rough cheek was on my shoulder
I was still looking out the window
He said "That's cause I love you"
I hold my babies like he held me then
with an abandon, and like
I was something precious, something tha
out of everyone in the world, only he could have.
I don't want to quote him wrong
because he's my daddy, and he's proud of me,
and I don't remember anything more
exactly, except that I knew that
I would rather have my daddy's hug
than anything else in the world.
he came to see me in my room
I didn't turn around, but heard his breathing
staring at his baby.
He leaned one elbow on the bed
and held my middle tight
and I couldn't turn to look at him
so I looked out the window
I wasn't that upset today,
but I never ask for much.
My daddy wished he could see me
with everything I wanted.
I said "you're sadder than I am"
and his rough cheek was on my shoulder
I was still looking out the window
He said "That's cause I love you"
I hold my babies like he held me then
with an abandon, and like
I was something precious, something tha
out of everyone in the world, only he could have.
I don't want to quote him wrong
because he's my daddy, and he's proud of me,
and I don't remember anything more
exactly, except that I knew that
I would rather have my daddy's hug
than anything else in the world.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I might as well be a grownup now.
Everyone is on the same page. Even if we weren't, pages are pretty thin. No person is above another. I don't know WHAT you're talking about.
My freshman year, I had a close friend who was a senior and took enough APs for the both of us to get into any Ivy league we wanted.
One day, she glided into class and slapped her newsboy bag down on the desk next to me and announced.
She won some scholarship from a college in Tennesee. College still seemed very far away to me. I thought about that for a while.
Then she said "I might even come back to teach here!"
I suddenly got very worried.
I was worried- what if in three years she came back and she was all done with college and an adult and I had to call her Ms. Hall and listen to her every word with respect and a closed mind? If she didn't want me calling her Laura?
Then I looked back at her, sitting next to me in an identical plastic desk.
That was the day I realized we are all the same. She would still be Laura. I would always be me, too. Growing up will change who we look like to people who don't know, but to each other, we'll always be the same.
I might as well be a grownup now. Nobody's stopping me.
Nobody who matters, at least.
My freshman year, I had a close friend who was a senior and took enough APs for the both of us to get into any Ivy league we wanted.
One day, she glided into class and slapped her newsboy bag down on the desk next to me and announced.
She won some scholarship from a college in Tennesee. College still seemed very far away to me. I thought about that for a while.
Then she said "I might even come back to teach here!"
I suddenly got very worried.
I was worried- what if in three years she came back and she was all done with college and an adult and I had to call her Ms. Hall and listen to her every word with respect and a closed mind? If she didn't want me calling her Laura?
Then I looked back at her, sitting next to me in an identical plastic desk.
That was the day I realized we are all the same. She would still be Laura. I would always be me, too. Growing up will change who we look like to people who don't know, but to each other, we'll always be the same.
I might as well be a grownup now. Nobody's stopping me.
Nobody who matters, at least.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Pantoum #2
This is my second try at a pantoum, which is a 16-line, usually unrhymed poem in four stanzas of four lines each. Here's the catch though- the second and fourth line of the first stanza become the first and third lines of the next. So line 4 of stanza 1 is IDENTICAL to line 3 of stanza 2. Also, the very first line has to be identical to the very last. I think it's just a form you have to get used to. It wouldn't work for a lot of poems because the repetition really does have to mean something. You sort of have to use the very restricted form as a symbol of something else, you can't sound like you're just trying to get around it. That's my eventual goal.
I write poetry
because I see patterns in things
and no one else sees. It's
like this, you see:
Because I see patterns in things,
I restrict myself in lines and words and sound
like this. You see?
I can not express it, but I will try:
I restrict myself in lines and words and sound.
Something else is keeping me from saying what I want.
I can not express it. But I will try
until I can not.
Something Else is keeping me from saying what I want.
I'll out do it with restrictions of my own.
Until I can not,
I write poetry.
I write poetry
because I see patterns in things
and no one else sees. It's
like this, you see:
Because I see patterns in things,
I restrict myself in lines and words and sound
like this. You see?
I can not express it, but I will try:
I restrict myself in lines and words and sound.
Something else is keeping me from saying what I want.
I can not express it. But I will try
until I can not.
Something Else is keeping me from saying what I want.
I'll out do it with restrictions of my own.
Until I can not,
I write poetry.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
it does.
the fifteen year old walked into the room and sat in a blue courduroy chair with pale polished legs and the man with rubber lips smiled at her wondering why she was staring at his forehead that was starting to bald so she could see pricks where hair was supposed to be but wasn't and he asked her questions like what word defines you the most and she said
"obdurate."
"obdurate."
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
I started my garden today to get ready for spring planting
I felt like a dry leaf in the wind
I put on my dad's huge boots,
and mismatched snow gloves
because the weeds were prickly.
. They didn't want me to pull them up.
I think I looked silly.
I am not small;
I am not twiggish, or bendy like a pine needle;
but as soon as I had the boots on
and the gloves
and as soon as I was pulling at a vine that reminded me
of the foamy breakers out at sea
I seemed fragile,
hands too big, feet to big, ready to lose my balance
like a gray frigate under the shadow of a storm wave or
like somebody just blew me off my tree.
I put on my dad's huge boots,
and mismatched snow gloves
because the weeds were prickly.
. They didn't want me to pull them up.
I think I looked silly.
I am not small;
I am not twiggish, or bendy like a pine needle;
but as soon as I had the boots on
and the gloves
and as soon as I was pulling at a vine that reminded me
of the foamy breakers out at sea
I seemed fragile,
hands too big, feet to big, ready to lose my balance
like a gray frigate under the shadow of a storm wave or
like somebody just blew me off my tree.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Dear Mom- I'm Not Phoebe Prince
Today I heard the story of a girl
who killed herself because she couldn't stand
black coffe for a lifetime-
Days were darker and bitterer than
the very end could possibly be.
I don't like black coffee.
I might hate it more than you.
But I'll drink my medicine and sing Mary Poppins songs
to get me through it.
I'm blessed with a vivid immagination.
I can immagine sugar.
It's not really that hard.
If you flip through a couple old notebooks of mine
you'll find me.
I'll be complaining.
I think that if I didn't have to drink anymore
somebody would go looking for me in those old groanings.
Don't be so sad
cause you made coffee taste bad.
But maybe kindness day to day
will scare the bitterness away.
who killed herself because she couldn't stand
black coffe for a lifetime-
Days were darker and bitterer than
the very end could possibly be.
I don't like black coffee.
I might hate it more than you.
But I'll drink my medicine and sing Mary Poppins songs
to get me through it.
I'm blessed with a vivid immagination.
I can immagine sugar.
It's not really that hard.
If you flip through a couple old notebooks of mine
you'll find me.
I'll be complaining.
I think that if I didn't have to drink anymore
somebody would go looking for me in those old groanings.
Don't be so sad
cause you made coffee taste bad.
But maybe kindness day to day
will scare the bitterness away.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Why I'm Never Sad (#1)
I don't mind failure. I
actually enjoy it a bit.
It's a really good hint towards
how I can make me better.
(I'm going for passable, here)
What I do mind, though
is when I can't figure out where the failure came from
and I can't remodel accordingly.
Ignorance is the only wound that festers.
actually enjoy it a bit.
It's a really good hint towards
how I can make me better.
(I'm going for passable, here)
What I do mind, though
is when I can't figure out where the failure came from
and I can't remodel accordingly.
Ignorance is the only wound that festers.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
It's always been
I came to be
a century
too late.
I want to be picking bugs out of my window screens
and turn back to lined papers,
and the date?
It would be 1910, when Frost taught in New Hampshire,
and empty rooms didn't make so much noise,
and silence didn't startle anyone.
I will not ruin dreams with any faults
but one; that they are dreams.
In the year twenty-ten, Spring has come back
The same spring, but a new one. Lending dreams
another fault, I couldn't hear the mud
and heavy trees with thick ankles like when...
a child is due. I was busy picking
the carpet beetles up with sheets of tape,
and thinking all about my 1910,
when moving bodies wouldn't phase me, when
I undistractedly would write my fill
surrounded by... surrounded by brethren.
I am in 1910.
***
I don't think that this can be understood by anyone but me. I tried to make it so that it could... I felt good writing it.
a century
too late.
I want to be picking bugs out of my window screens
and turn back to lined papers,
and the date?
It would be 1910, when Frost taught in New Hampshire,
and empty rooms didn't make so much noise,
and silence didn't startle anyone.
I will not ruin dreams with any faults
but one; that they are dreams.
In the year twenty-ten, Spring has come back
The same spring, but a new one. Lending dreams
another fault, I couldn't hear the mud
and heavy trees with thick ankles like when...
a child is due. I was busy picking
the carpet beetles up with sheets of tape,
and thinking all about my 1910,
when moving bodies wouldn't phase me, when
I undistractedly would write my fill
surrounded by... surrounded by brethren.
I am in 1910.
***
I don't think that this can be understood by anyone but me. I tried to make it so that it could... I felt good writing it.
I Am Not Dead
...yet.
I think I figured something out about myself today.
Here's the equation-
I am a very busy person. I rarely have "free" time, and on busy days, I forget about what I want to do and do what I have to do, but I do things well. On the days where I have little to do, I can't not do something. One more time for clarity- I can't sit idly by. I will stay up until 2am even though I should really be catching up on sleep, just because I am being plain that day, and I can't stand going to bed before I've done something.
Here's my explanation-
I can't see a day go by without having accomplished something constructive, something I can save. I can save good memories, or bad memories, as long as they're significant, and those are accomplishments. I can save projects. I can save poems, or stories, or realizations. I can save learning, I can save a new vocabulary word, so long as I will never lose that day of my life. It wasn't wasted.
So the past couple days-
I have accomplished things, and things are the equivalents of poems.
I think I figured something out about myself today.
Here's the equation-
I am a very busy person. I rarely have "free" time, and on busy days, I forget about what I want to do and do what I have to do, but I do things well. On the days where I have little to do, I can't not do something. One more time for clarity- I can't sit idly by. I will stay up until 2am even though I should really be catching up on sleep, just because I am being plain that day, and I can't stand going to bed before I've done something.
Here's my explanation-
I can't see a day go by without having accomplished something constructive, something I can save. I can save good memories, or bad memories, as long as they're significant, and those are accomplishments. I can save projects. I can save poems, or stories, or realizations. I can save learning, I can save a new vocabulary word, so long as I will never lose that day of my life. It wasn't wasted.
So the past couple days-
I have accomplished things, and things are the equivalents of poems.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
i can spit all the metaphors you want; but in plain talk...
i hate it when you
look confused; now i'm
OUT OF THE RIGHT WORDS
look confused; now i'm
OUT OF THE RIGHT WORDS
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
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