so because I actually just moved all of my posts, some of the time references will not make sense... however, some are timeless.
you'll figure it out.
happy writing :)
Thursday, June 4, 2009
6.2.09: (I don’t know what to title it yet)
I wrote this in the morning on the bus. You would think that the poem would be happier. It was sunny and I wasn’t at all in a bad mood. Who knows…. when the words come, they come….
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
6.1.09: Father and Son
This was also written during and after seeing Rita speak. I hadn’t written in a little while, at least, not poetry. But this moved me. So I wrote.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
6.1.09: To The Books I Haven’t Picked Up In A While: Reading
I wrote this in Harvard Book Store on Mass Ave. while watching a little girl pick a book out with her mother. I was there for a poetry reading by Rita Dove, who by the way, is amazing. She speaks as though she’s singing, some inner rhythm pulsing through her.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
Shimmery Black Holes & Dead Stars
Sometimes I wonder if you’re actually here.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
summer
i hate not knowing what i’m going to do with myself this summer….. argh.
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
Hi people…
Hi… I have no idea who reads this, and if anyone does. But if you do, I’m sorry that I haven’t written in so long. But hopefully I’m back School is about to be out, and these past few weeks have been reallly reallly stressful.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
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