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Oct. 3rd, 2011

Enshrined in sleepy warmth,
Perfume cloak of nostalgia,
Race through changing planes.

The blood is filled with bliss
And the heart pumps with music.
The last rally call fades and the soft
Victory trumpet echoes in the dark.

Dark eyeliner smeared eyes
Gaze unwavering
At skeletal remains.

A sharp smirk punctuates
Soft feminine features.

She knows excess and waste
She knows beauty and joy
She knows loss and hatred.
They are symptoms of change and endurance.

Her being lies in flux and conflict
In this moment she is conquer
And she journey home in a land
That is always the same and different.
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May. 5th, 2011

Poetics from May Day

Gods can be heavy.
Knowing, Experiencing, Seeing
A dividing force
A choice given,
A choice taken,
No informed consent,
No going back.

There is peace and power in these worlds
Beauty, ability, and strength enough to sustain.
Being in two worlds,
Makes presence twice transparent.

You can see You can know
You can't lift or carry
You can't give or take

An observer in Their House
And failing participant in your own.

We bear their loads
We hear their words
We hold the same vanity.
Certain we will not shatter.
We aren't shattered.

Our world is mostly unknown,
No map agrees.

We go forth.
With love and light,
Power and Peace.

May we be change
May we be ready
Because Gods can be heavy.

Nov. 1st, 2010

Throw on the Black Dress

Jul. 6th, 2008

Long rambly entry that pretty much covers internet and real life in odd patches

Jan. 18th, 2008

Every English Major Should

I know I know. I hate when people start a conversation with "Everyone should", but today in American Lit we went over Allen Ginsberg's "America" and my friend turned to me and said anyone who is an English major living in America should have read Ginsberg, especially "America". I couldn't help feeling that maybe she was right.

On one side the first time some one had even pointed Ginsberg out to me was my Junior year of college, so I'm not one to throw stones. Another thing is that while I value the creative aspect of English, you can major in a more applicable English major and never learn about poets at all. Perhaps the thing I think most important is that what is "great literature" is all about opinion. What is great to me or to critics or to my aunt is all different. While I should sample things that I think I'd like and maybe look at a few things because they are "good" I don't think there are any "musts".

All of that a side I love Ginsberg specifically this poem and if I was going to create an American commentary class this poem would be at the top of the list. I really think that this poem is worth a read and a thought. Always have. For that reason it was hard to say the obligatory "no people don't have to read this poem and it can be understandible of people don't know of Ginsberg".

If you haven't read it, you should.




Speaking of poetry I got my poetry book back. I got an A-. Apparently only some of my poems were "clear and Comples at once....writing about what is important". I was somewhat surprised by his choices of good poems and bad ones. While it was no surprise that he liked Body Songs I was somewhat surprised that he didn't like Dear Reader, a poem he had claimed to really like (that I think is somewhat terrible) earlier in the semester. I made all his suggested changes to it, but whatever. I was really trying to pull a Robert Bly there and for me it was a huge failure, who knows maybe he saw that in it too or maybe he just didn't think the poem fit with the rest of my portfolio as I can be poetic when I feel like it.

It was no surprise top me that he liked Hackneyed. It is possibly the strongest poem I have in my portfolio. There are others I like more or less than this one but I think as far as universal goes, this on probably steals the prize. Though, I was taken a back that he didn't like Quarter Life Crisis so much. I think it's funny and a little cheeky, but over all the theme and the kind of style is very similar to Hackneyed.

I am pleasantly surprised that he liked He Doesn't Know He Plays Too Rough. I was really trying for something that was bouncy but dealing with a more serious topic, so I'm glad that worked and was something he found universal. I'm also glad he likes it because I know in class when he had to deal with poems that brought up women's issues sometimes he was put off by the topic or the whole feeling like there was finger pointing going on. It sucks that we live in a culture that seems to push a one or the other. If a woman is venting about anything sexist then she is obviously blaming men. Maybe she's just venting, or pointing something out that needs to be addressed. It doesn't have to be some kind of personal attack.

However, I am really amazed he didn't like To All The Bastards. One of the things he likes is metaphors and descriptions, of which I thought there was quite a bit in there. Of course I think some of the turn around in the poem is quite clever too and that might just all be perception. I also think that the poem is very universal (as I doubt I'm the only person out there whose been told they are pretty when they cry or that it's sexy when I get angry). Perhaps it just wasn't something he could relate to or maybe I just didn't do as good a job with it as I thought. I know the last line is sort of abrupt and doesn't entirely fit but beyond that, I'm not sure what there is to correct. Maybe this was just too girl powerish for him, I don't know.

Every man I've ever known really likes and in some weird way identifies with Facets. I find this a little odd because this poem is disturbing and about a very specific type of boy to man. The work itself is derived from three men I know in the real world. I'm not exactly sure what my professor thinks the universal theme is here, but maybe he's just refering to how specifically men seem to be highly drawn to this work. Part of it's appeal might just be that I don't have a lot of work that I think would interest many guys. My audience especially in poetry generally leans to a more female venue, which is something I either need to consider more or work on more.

I wonder if Too Late to Be Self Righteous? (f-list locked) is actually a good poem or just a poem he was afraid to not star. I mean the content within the work is very personal and emotional. Often I see teachers give students awesome grades for really touchy subjects because the subject is touchy (the work itself though is often crap). I wonder if this is a spare the feelings more or if this is props for trying something that is hard to tackle. Either way though at this point in my life I find it really counter productive for teachers to score something well because it's personal. If the work is crap I really wish that someone would just tell me. I wrote it when I was upset and in a bad place and I thought a lot about whether or not I wanted to share. I wanted to share it for real critique and work because I think that it could stand up to it and because I do have enough distance now to talk about it, but since that isn't how everyone acts and a lot of people are overly sensitive to a student's emotions, I can't be certain if this is a pity like or not.

Of course he liked Tell You What. My attempt at a Billy Collins-ish poem. It isn't Billy Collins-ish. It's too serious for that and the topic doesn't even end up being a purely happy poem but a sort of bitter sweet thing going on. I really think he likes the comparisons and the classic undertones, but I wonder whether it's just too classic and too overdone. Personally I love it cause it's about my current bf and it suits us very well, but I don't know how universal that really is.

That being said I'm surprised he didn't seem to like Unexpected (f-listed). I mean it's a little racey. A bit of boldly going where many have gone before but where people often crash and burn and where hopefully I'll walk the fine line between class and crass to a stunning success. I suppose maybe it just wasn't a stunning success. I'm kind of biased because obviously I think it's pretty good and because you know it's about my current relationship. Though I've written a third poem about this boy that I wouldn't even post on ij because it is beyond terrible. I don't even know what's wrong with it or how to change it except that it isn't interesting and the description lacks something or other. The difference here is obviously that I think Unexpected is really good and I do think that it's applicable to many different people. I kind of wish he'd given me some more feed back about why this one doesn't stand out to him. Maybe that was just too embarassing for him to do though or whatever.

I really liked Wishes but understand why he might not. Beyond that I'm surprised that Only for the Easily Impressed didn't get a mention and even though I know he doesn't like On Friendship and Other Lamness, I think it's great. Woot poetic differences.
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Dec. 31st, 2007

Last four poems

Poem with No Warnings. Almost done with all of this I swear and then the flist will go back to normal....In fact I'm not to attached to any of these so.



Only Warning here is for those who are really into PETA might not want to read this (and the people who I used for this poem should know that while I didn't change their names their characters are largely exagerated and nothing offensive specifically towards them is meant it's just me being fiesty and moody).



Only Waring is that this one isn't my best work it's very juvenile and um yeah here we go.


And the last one also no warnings attached.

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On Friendship and Other Lamness

Poem no warnings needed.

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Tell You What

Poem No need for warnings here unless you don't do things a little sweet, cause this has a slightly sugary taste

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Wishes

One of my poems from the portfolio warnings inclued bitterness and implied sexually implicit material.
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Dec. 5th, 2007

Another Angry Poem to Suit my Mood Aparently

A Kind of Shitty Poem

Sep. 27th, 2007

Advanced Poetry Poem

This is my first draft of my body song. I think it's really very pretty. I need to go back and correct a few things. Add some punctuation, do a second sweep through word choice, but over all I think its done as it stands.

Sep. 16th, 2007

Two Poems of the moment

The First one called "So Yeah, Six Years Later" is for poetry class and its one requirement is that you know, you need to have one question in the poem.

The Second Poem is not for poetry class though it also fits the assignment, has some of the free write in it and I think sucessfully covers my Poem Idea that I wrote about earlier and its currently called "Really?"



Really? )

Sep. 9th, 2007

Poem I wrote for Advanced Poetry Class

Professor gave me a writing prompt I HAD to make a poem out of. He put out all these items (feather, onion, bark, pear) and said to describe one in a free write, so I did that. Then he had us compare it to our mothers, so I did that too. Then he told us to take the free write home and write a poem based off of it. I've done that too, but I'm not sure I'm really a fan of what I wrote. I know we could take any aspect of what we wrote to create a poem from it. The poem doesn't have to be about the onion, but I'm afraid the onion lacks creative juices for me. So the poem is pretty shitty and is totally all about the onion. Anyhow, its behind the cut and not so hot.

Onion )

Dec. 21st, 2006

P Hackneyed

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Dec. 15th, 2006

P Dearest

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Oct. 26th, 2006

P Socialite 101

Socialite 101




Drop dead drunk
Drugged to delirium
Dizzy dancings under disco ball light play round and round.
Decadent decor in the fashion of dim lights
Desperately desire to deceive the dingy reality.

Am I the girl dressed delicately dreaming of the party to die for
Downing beers like they are more delicious daiquiris?
Deepened depression deemed it right
To drown my esophagus



Drops downpoured into deep devastation within.
Just the thought demands a dirty bile-filled tongue
To dutifully dislocate from a much offended mouth.

Dis-empowered, my body stays in a daze
Displeased by demands to rise sent from the dictator that was my brain
Disturbed, I shake uncontrollably on the cold tile
All hope of making it to bed dashed.
Did I devour enough booze for an "overdose"?

Too mentally damaged at the moment to be disgusted.
Dare myself to stand,
Sliding like there's dishwasher soap down
Desperate to deter more damage
I dangle from the towel wrack
My intestines churn in dangerous warning
Damn it, face first in the toilet for what won't be the last time.
Dumb is what I've been
Definitely not too dented to determine my decisions were disgusting.




 


*********************************************************************************************************************************************


Author's Notes


This particular piece is really dedicated to my first Thursday at college where I somehow managed to consume 15 drinks without dying.  I don't have any clue what I was thinking.  Well actually I do.  I just wanted to "get so drunk I couldn't feel feelings" anymore.  Some of it was depression.  Some of it was social pressure.  Some of it was trying to impress/showup an old flame.  Some of it was trying to be friendly and cool with a new roomie.  A lot of it what me just trying to escape.  I think the poem speaks for the outcome and my thoughts in hindsight all on its own though.

As far as ratings go, I would give this pretty high marks. I like the way I managed to work the d sounds into the poem through out. It doest a good job of tripping the reader up and sort of making them sound like they are drunkenly stumbling along with the poem. I also like the comentary on society today. While its a little pesimistic, it really is what a large portion of the college scene and young people's social life is about. It shows contempt and dislike for the actions but at the same time desire to partake even if the after affects include illness and possibly death.

Oct. 23rd, 2006

The Russian by Robert Bly

The Russian

“The Russian had few doctors on the front line.
My father's job was this: after the battle
Was over, he'd walk among the men hit,
Sit down and ask: 'Would you like to die on your
Own in a few hours, or should I finish it?'
Most said, 'Don't leave me.' The two would have
A cigarette. He'd take out his small notebook-
We had not dogtags, you know- and write the man's
Name down, his wife's, his children, his address, and what
he wanted to say. When the cigarette was done,
The soldier would turn his head to the side. My father
Finished off four hundred me that way during the war.
He never went crazy. They were his people.

He came to Toronto. My father in the summers
Would stand on the lawn with a hose, watering
The grass that way. It took a long time. He'd talk
To the moon, to the wind. 'I can hear you growing'-
He'd say to the grass. 'We come and go.
We're no different from each other. We are all
Part of something. We have a home.' When I was thirteen,
I said, 'Dad, do you know they've invented sprinklers
Now?' He went on watering the grass.
“This is my life. Just shut up if you don't understand it.”
-Robert Bly

Oct. 22nd, 2006

Litany by Billy Collins

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine.
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass,
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron and the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

An a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's teacup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and-somehow-
the wine.
-Billy Collins

Snowbanks North of the House by Robert Bly

Snowbanks North of the House

The great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six feet from the house...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a party and lives him no
more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls leaving the church.
It will not come closer-
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch nothing, and are safe.

And the father grieves for his son, and will not leave the room where the
coffin stands;
he turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.

And the sea lifts and falls all night; the moon goes on through the
unattached heavens alone.
And the toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust...
The man in the black coat turns, and goes back down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away, and did not climb
the hill.
-Robert Bly

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