Two.

I'm tired. Long day. And yesterday was long because my university had a lock down, and I got trapped in library basement. Yeah. So, poem number one (because I obviously didn't get to it yesterday.)

The Library Basement - for April 8, 2013

You are fictitious but neatly stacked

side by side, up and down,

as real as anything ever organized.

Your people are my people

and I am welcome, I am comforted,

pressed between the dusty rows

of adventure after adventure. 

In the middle of the alphabet

or a strangely-constructed system

I am at home and you are at home

and without each other we barely exist.

~

This second poem is written as a suggestion from a friend. Yes, I am taking suggestions! Let me know if you have a marvelous idea (or less-than-marvelous, those will also be considered.) This is about the few moments of being awake right after a dream.

Splotch - for April 9, 2013

Sometimes in bleaker moments of night

I toss from cloud to cloud like

a blackened splotch of thunderstorm.

I am nebulous but nightmarish and

I am not welcome here.

And so I drift, down,

from the lofty space where hurt is born

and I rumble away from the beginning

of distance and petulance and disturbance

and cautiously I fade

in color and constitution

until I am lightness

and carelessly I float

until I am warmth.

And I remember

every morning--

for the briefest second of lucidity

--the feeling of wind surrounding my body

and the sun warming my youthful limbs,

and all the peace a spirit can muster

being compacted into the seemingly finite container

of my soul.

Too busy.

Here's to another week of National Poetry Month. Let's start this one off with something silly. Seriously, I got stuff to do, so here you go. Just read it already.

I am too busy
baking delicious cookies
to write a poem.

Alright, just kidding.
One more stanza just for you.
Hope you like haiku.

Yes, for the record:
"haiku" is both singular
and plural. So there.

Here is the cookbook
containing the recipe
for sugar cookies.

Ok. Enough haiku. They're actually lemon sugar cookies, and they were some of my favorite cookies as a kid. My mother and my aunt also loved them. They're delicious! And they're not for you.

NPM: A sonnet for Saturday

For today's poem I've written an English (or Shakespearean) sonnet. I figure, I didn't put any effort into yesterday's poem, because, well, I didn't write it. So today I gave myself a challenge. Enjoy it! (and your weekend, which I'm sure is lovely.)

Wisdom, Swiftness and Patience

The sum of time has pressed upon me here,

with ceremony but little reason.

This, the fixèd sign of a waning season

as duty and trepidation draw near.

But hidden fear is my greatest defense.

Refusing to forfeit still motivates

me to be wise, to be swift, to not wait,

to leave the less courageous in suspense.

Yes, my brave soul will still bow in earnest,

but anxiously sigh as time takes apart

the wall I constructed around my heart.

Survival takes all the strength I possess.

And when the sun sets on this sordid day

freedom will tell me I've no time to stay.

Some Prufrock for Friday

A joyous Friday to you all. I don't know about the rest of the world, but I am exhausted. The changing of the seasons brings many migraines my way, which in turn make me tired. I also spent a good while traipsing around the woods today getting some photos taken for graduation announcements (yeah... I'm graduating like 5 weeks from tomorrow. Weird.) And then I went to Plato's Closet to sell some stuff.

Maybe it's different for other girls (or boys, I suppose) but for me, going to sell clothes/shoes/etc. at Plato's Closet is the equivalent of standing in line to have a cheeky hipster who is probably five years younger than you give you unabashed criticism AND tell you why they're giving you criticism. Seriously. I'm happy they buy clothes, but the reasons they have for not buying some things always bothers me. Like timeliness. (Those bracelets were made 11 MONTHS ago, buy them from me or I'll smash those stupid glasses off your face and rip out your eyebrow piercing!) Or brand names. (These shoes are made by every company in America. You are wearing them! Right now! I can SEE over the counter, little girl, and they are the same shoes except that these are brand new and I want to get rid of them!) So then you stand there, after they've sorted through your goods, and some girl with feathers in her bangs tells you why she didn't buy the rest of the stuff in the bag, and informs you that they don't buy sunglasses whatsoever (for real?!).

It also doesn't matter that half of the stuff in that bag wasn't mine, it came from people in my apartment building. (They leave free bags of stuff in the lobby.) It still feels bad to have featherbangs tell me it's outdated, or "stained." 

Anyways. I am exhausted. Not too exhausted to write, clearly, but too exhausted to write you a personal poem. So I've decided that today I will share one of my favorite poems. It's somewhat long, but definitely worth the read.

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - By T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;   That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.         125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Tea Time - a poem for Thursday

April 4, 2013

Tea Time

My mind is a kettle,

my heart is a pot,

I sigh during

the stirring,

worrying a lot.

I am bound to suffer,

I am prone to toil,

under stress

and duress,

as I press on and boil. 

The water is vapor,

the liquid is steam,

as I trill

then still,

and spill into a dream.

In honor of today's poem, and this being my 111th blog post here, I drank tea (because Bilbo Baggins also had a 111th birthday, and he liked tea) and then doodled. (It's a thing I do.) And then I messed with the doodle. (Not something I usually do.)





Happy Thursday!

A poem for Wednesday

April 3, 2013

Peripheral Hindsight

Swifter years hold
tighter grasps
as they fall
and wisp
away
like
gentle
feather
shackles.
Inescapable,
and yet they are
still so infinitesimal.
Sometimes you feel them
and then sometimes you don't.

Two poems (for NPM)

Most people know I write. Less know that I write poetry. (I don't share that fact often, anymore.) But it's true. I have a deep, compulsive, dependent relationship with poetry. It's why I take long breaks from writing. The intensity takes over my brain, and then I forget to study. However! As a lover of poetry, and a future educator of your future children, I have found within myself a driving force, telling me that I should be an advocate for National Poetry Month. (And in case you have just woken from a coma or were underground or anywhere without a calendar, April is NPM.) As your personal poetry guru for this month, I find it necessary (and completely exhilarating!) to write a poem for every day. And considering that I made the decision this morning, I'll have to write two poems today, since I missed April 1st. Thus, we begin.

One. April 1, 2013

Can't Miss Me

Had the woman been waiting
in the lobby for long?
Was she panicked and harried,
had I done her wrong?
Is she wearing a scarf of black and white,
so that upon my arrival
she'll be within sight?
This chair is still empty,
are the stairs hollow too?
Should I wander around
if she doesn't follow through?
Did I make her impatient?
Did she not want to stay?
And is it really my fault
I just got lost on the way?
~

Two. April 2, 2013

Survival

Spreading warmth
between frosted soil layers
is where divinity
confers with finality.
For the act in question
poses with both
sunshowers and rainshines
and neither can offer
a decidedly balanced
means to survive.
~


More tomorrow!