spines

I apologize, I am failing utterly at being a consistent and interesting poetry blogger! Its so difficult to find the time to sit down and really think and write, I am so busy these days. I know that is a shameful thing to say. 

For now, however, since I have no poetry to offer your eyes and minds, I would instead like to recommend some of my favorite books of poetry to you, in hopes that you READ. Because to be a good writer, everybody must READ. I'm sure some of these are common knowledge for some, but a lot of the younger poets I've come across would rather listen to Dashboard Confessional lyrics than sit down and read some Whitman. Which is a crying shame. Song lyrics are of course poetry in themselves (and often amazing poetry), but sometimes you just have to sit down  in silence and drink words up off paper. When you listen to a song, its like the emotion is already waiting for you in the music, you know? I don't even know what I'm rambling about anymore. Anyways.

So here are my recommendations! 

1. "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" by William Blake.

I feel like some people have an aversion to Blake because he uses a lot of Biblical themes in his work. But the Bible is arguably one of the greatest works of poetry ever written (I've never read it in its entirety), so how could that necessarily be a bad thing? He draws on the booming, epic style of Biblical tales in describing his own vision of what heaven and hell are truly like, and does so in a beautiful fashion. Beautiful, sweeping and philosophical. Also, his prints are gorgeous and very unsettling at the same time. So if you can find a copy that includes the illustrations, read that one - it enhances the entire experience quite a bit.

2. "Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.

In my opinion, after Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath is the most important female poet ever. And her reign as poetess was so very short, as she killed herself at the young age of 30. She began writing when she was very young, and wrote up until her death. Her poetry was vivid, fierce, dark, imaginative, beautiful and honest. She was a woman tortured by her own mind, and you can feel her pain oozing out from each word of her poems. Her book of poems "Ariel" was published after she committed suicide, and many of the poems in the book were written mere days before she took her own life. When you read this book, its like you are sitting quietly inside her mind as she is writing her suicide note, her elegy. Its a beautiful and tragic experience. Her life was definitely too short.

3. "Howl and Other Poems" by Allen Ginsberg.

You knows. This is one of the greatest works of poetry of all time, as well as one of the most controversial. They made a fantastic movie about Ginsberg, the poem itself and the resulting trial surrounding it a few years back starring James Franco (dreamboat). If you don't know the story, its this - when City Lights Books first published Ginsberg's work in 1956, both Lawrence Ferlinghetti and the store's manager were arrested on obscenity charges. This was because the poem describes things that folks back in the 1950s were particularly fond of hearing about - sexuality, promiscuity, homosexuality, drug use, etc. Luckily, however, the poem was deemed to have artistic merit and the case was dismissed. This trial also made it possible for many books that were banned in the US to finally be published, such as the works of Anais Nin and Henry Miller. Because it broke boundaries, and won the right to break those boundaries, this poem has gone down in history. And rightfully so. It is a raw, humorous, shocking, beautiful piece of work. I'd also recommend also tracking down an audio version of Ginsberg reading the poem - this is the kind of poetry that was meant to be shouted out loud.

Thats all for now, folks. Happy reading! 

What are some of your favorite poets or works of poetry?

SJ

#13

Sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I haven't been very present on my other blog, either. I've been working nonstop nights, and when I get home all I want to do is just shut off my brain. Other than that, I've been doing volunteer work, and trying to enjoy the last remnants of summer as much as possible with my good friends. Its been hard to focus on writing, really.

I recently did a guest post on my friend Sarah's pretty lil' blog, Atlantic Atlantis, along with some other very talented ladies. Check it out! Her blog is a wonderful read.

I have several postings to make. The first is a poem I wrote on a break at work, in my first week there. I guess I was trying to capture the mundane, everyday feel of working in a convenience store and make it into something beautiful:

"in search of poetry amidst

shining cobalt tincans

that reflect noisy midnights,

the constant tinkling of bells

that single the gentle clink

of amber glass

i search for music in the beeping

of scanners, their angry crimson gaze

in the grinding of meats, the gentle

sawing of blades through soft,

warm bread

i search for meaning

in the unfocused eye

of middle-aged men,

the soft rumbling of

change in their pockets

their sour smells that hang

onto worn t-shirts

and torn jeans

each pebble in the carpets

tells the history of those

who have walked these

floors, broken glass maps

of parties that have long been over

the footprints are ghosts

of lives that have wandered off

elsewhere"

Thats all I got in me tonight. My eyes are drooping. I'm crazing something salty, some nice smells. I need new books to read. What is everybody reading lately, anyways? Until next day. I promise there'll be another soon! Fingers crossed.

SJ

#12

I've had a rather busy week. Schoolwork, normal work, volunteer work... I've been very productive, it would seem. I'm just wrapping up this semester, enjoying my effortlessly easy and rewarding job working night shifts as a cashier and on Wednesdays have been devoting my time volunteering with a sexual health organization. There hasn't been a lot of time for creation, but I seem to have managed. 

This poem here is prompt #140 for One Single Impression, the theme was "dreams". 'tis only a little thing, but I felt like jumping onto the raft again. 

- 

i cannot fathom 

returning to the other side

when here, 

i am an empress

wrapped in layers of cloth 

embroidered

with all the fables of the world

my throne seated atop 

a mountain of 

sugar that 

laughs in sweetened tones

at the absurdity of it all

SJ

#11

This is prompt #178 for One Single Impression. The topic this week was "need". Enjoy, my darlings.

-

it is in desire
for the softest flesh
that i sit beneath this
tree, the wind surging
through its leaves
like a stampede of ghosts
the stars blinking
in silent fatigue

and i imagine its flavor
as my teeth break through
the papery skin, its sweetness
flowing against my tongue.
i beg gravity to grant me this wish -
the rubyred glittering
apple that sits atop the highest branch,
like a crown.



SJ

#10

This was the 45th prompt for Jingle Poetry's Poetry Potluck. The theme was nature and life. In a lot of places in Newfoundland the trees have grown into strange, savage shapes because of the wind sculpting them over time. I think they're incredibly beautiful, and for some reason this is the first thing I thought of when I saw this prompt.

-

i recognize the sounds
of the world waking up,
the sun yawning whisps of
foamy clouds across the infant sky

and my feet touch the world's heart
as they move with me, crawling over
the detritus of summer like ants
weaving between the white trees

who stand solitary, their slender bodies
leaning back in rapture as they have done
since they were first ravaged by our winds -
fierce lovers, abstract artists

who on quiet days, gently kiss their masterpieces
admire their tender quills like tiny hands
reaching out to catch the rain, to hold
the sun like a warm stone in emerald palms



SJ

#9

This is prompt #177 for One Single Impression! The theme is "phantom".

-

death has made a voyeur of me,
seating me here behind reality's thin curtain - 
this fate is not a pleasant one,
doomed to watch as life
continues on like waves crashing
ceaselessly, watching those
who are born die, and life
begin anew, seeing the microscopic
details of disease and the macroscopic
of people, like insects across blue satin

and each time you peel
aside the curtain
all they hear is the rattling
of chains; which they ignore,
blaming it on the wind, hoping
nobody notices the goosebumps
rising along their spine
like raindrops dotting a
skyscraper, glowing in
the lights of traffic.


SJ

#8

July 18th, 2011

I was thinking about abstract art, about dreams, about lust, about confusion, and my brain shat this out. Imagine you're trapped in a lucid dream where everything is a painting. Imagine whatever you want.

-

i cannot comprehend why it is only now
that the occupying crimsons and azures
have chosen to fade to muted violet
while the clock's hands echo and click
in the corner, like tapshoes
like a loose hinge

our pale skin falls to the floor
perpetually, mechanically,
only to grow back as the sun rises again
the room's scent growing faint and trembling
as the air staggers home to bloom again
and our bodies are reborn

knowing they are watched by constellations
who recline, lazily wrapped in morning's silver veil,
waiting like ballerinas in velvet-lined wings
to dance forward across a dead sky
to correlate the freckles on our hands
into maps

to pull us across the glowing desert
of the mind, fearing the eruption of storms
each time our snow globe skulls begin to shake
ferociously, the sky falling down in exhaustion
as thin light pirouettes across our landscape
and we drop once more into sleep

#7

July 13th, 2011

boys larger than the sunset's magnitude of shadow
clear dust and gravel along the pavement,
playfully creating storms of pale grit
carried lazily by the small afternoon breeze

but they are mindful of me
buried under my mismatched layers
of old press board and tobacco leaves
in the earth, sending up smoke signals as i watch

with worn glassy eyes thin golden arms
laced with blue veins, and recall jackets
sinking slowly into filthy puddles of water,
soaking up an entire day and turning from

black to brown, wondering if a day was just
twenty-four long hours, condensed to a puddle
on a downtown street in autumn, lights turning red,
and tiny feet carrying me into tomorrow.


-

SJ

#6

2008, entitled "gravity is not your friend". I'm still digging up the fresh ground. Sorry to my four readers for not posting for awhile, I'm a busy little bee.

-


clusters of cold human faces
set into frowning, crackled molds
are hovering like marionettes on invisible wire
over the sky-painted streets.

the bus stops are filled with smoke,
magician's disappearing acts
which leave only ashes
and transparent ghosts of words on flaking benches.

the sour taste of cold metal keys
at the back of everybody's throats;
the spark of dying bulbs as they flicker
like dim signals of distress over oil-steeped water.

girls in plaid and steel observe the stars
melting into dawn like mints under their own tongues,
raise their arms longer than sentences,
shorter than silence,
until they could be waving aside the gray
coiling clouds like golden giants,
wanting to feel that moisture against their fingertips,
to feel it snaking down thin white wrists,
serpentine and acidic.

Robert Frost.

At my good friend Daniel's request, I will be writing this post about Robert Frost, who is his favorite.

Mr. Frost was born in 1874 in San Francisco, California. His parents were both teachers, and his father also worked as a journalist. This may have been an inspiration for the young Frost, who knows. His father died when he was about 10 years old, and he & his family relocated to Massachusetts.

While much of Frost's poetry depicts rural life, he grew up primarily in the city. He attended Dartmouth University, where he was a member of a fraternity. After two years there, he left to return home to teach. He later went on to do liberal arts classes at Harvard. After publishing his first poem (which earned him $15), he got married.

Frost's life was frequently struck by tragedy. When his father died, his family was left with just $8. His mother died from cancer in 1900. He had to have both his sister and one of his daughter's committed to a mental hospital - mental illness ran pretty heavily in his family. He himself occasionally suffered from severe bouts of depression. Of his 6 children, only 2 outlived him. One of them committed suicide. And his wife died of heart failure after they were married for about 40 years. Pretty disheartening, but it only made him grow stronger as both a man and a writer. As he once said:

"I can sum up in three words everything I've learned about life -- it goes on."

After World War I, he purchased a farm in New Hampshire, where he spent much of his life and which inspired much of his poetry. The wall he described in his poem "Mending Wall" has been a favorite feature of his farm for many decades, as today this farmhouse is a museum known as The Frost Place. 

At the age of 86, two years before the end of his life, Frost read one of his poems at the inauguration of President Kennedy. When he died, his tombstone was engraved with the epitaph:

"I had a lover's quarrel with the world."

A beautiful line from one of his poems.

So why is Frost such an important poet?

Because of his extremely realistic poetry. He wrote about rural life as it had never been written about in his day, and he did it superbly well. Not only that, but he often used these settings and images to portray the much deeper philosophy surrounding them, and used a lot of heavy metaphors. He was awarded 4 Pulitzer Prizes for his writing, and inspired millions of poets both young and old across America for decades. An inspiring man, all in all.

Here he is one of his most famous poems. If you've never read this, you must've attended high school in a crater on Mars. Its called "The Road Not Taken".

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

SJ

#5

From May 2007, which was hard times if there ever were hard times. Its amazing to look back at how far we've come in life. This is one of my favorites, ever. Dear 17 year old Sierra, please give me some of your magic (you didn't even know you had it). This is called "aphasiac years" ("aphasia" being a language disorder that in severe forms can make you unable to read, write, or speak).

-

they say she was an octave below
the title of mistress, lady, gunslinger
of his supposed holy war.

his eggshell teeth hard as slate, diamonds,
paper-boy hat askew while he
played the tambourine for her body.

someday (while swallowing oriental leaves,
his tonsils scratched by their cross-stitched
brown hands, fingers spread, as though welcoming)
he would imagine her as substance and pray
on her sister's wooden pearls
for the sight of her coral-reef,
rippled beauty to materialize for his pen,
for his physical shell to stop alienating.

instead she melts into the slick,
frictionless agony of night,
knowing he will never grow while held
in the promise of something black,
not her skyscraper fingertips crushing
into his eavesdropped world.

a country where it is dusk;
the sky is overdosing on too many thoughts,
and crawling home for her bones.



SJ


New prompt?! Write a poem about something blue. It doesn't matter what. Just do it.

#4

rough draft. 

-

my friends & i

we bear imaginary children

in the caverns of our minds

compare the luminous sparkle of

emerald eyes

to our own

to the strange searchlights

of former lovers

wishing to cast off two headed
monsters

who suck the pale pink sweetness of electricity

from fragile forms

tearing their way inside 

with sharpened talons pointed at
the fluttering throats
of swans

tearful words that plead
to spare sculpture,

eyes frightened of torn painted worlds,

feet filled with crumbling plaster

constructed tin islands from ashtrays

which are smoldered upon
the shells of bodies

breasts and hips

drifting along calmly

gray mirazes like clouds

they could pass through

with only the lightest exhale

at the end of the day
we stand in dusk's
marble blue snow

watch as the headlights fall from

the moist hilltops
like pearls from a broken string

they scream
like our own monsters in the darkness

as the stars are lighted one by one

by god's weary hands

guiding us

gently into a still violet morning

where we simply are

no

one



SJ

#3

This one is from the very first summer I moved to St. John's, in 2008. I had a lot on my mind. It is entitled "cataclysm", most appropriately. I've never had a stranger time.

-

shouting hello from the opaline rooftops
of this firefly city,
cradling my epic collection
of concerns.

seated here between flesh-colored,
breathing walls,
filling invisible cages
with hazy thoughts
drawn by children in chalk.
they resemble missing string
cat's cradle patterns.

there's a girl wearing
judas tree flowers
in a serpentine coil around
her shell-like form.
she is unraveling slowly through
a labyrinth of broken windows
(you say
i bore this maze)

not a hair touches the
fractured panes, her
cold flesh strays from
broken glass

she wants the knowledge
at the end, she wants
the quiescent bones
fashioned into a harp
that will sing to her
in veracious tones

desires the bitter taste
of dust, to wake up at the depths
of the ocean, all things
azure

(a glass of water
at the foot of your bed)

crawling through the fibers of time
as they loosen,

she knows how all this will
deconstruct, whose hands
will tear out the first
shred

but she has only
shown me
snapshots.

-

Now, friends. Its time for prompt #2! For me this week, I want you to write a poem about summertime. Yes, the oldest subject in the great book of stomped on poetic subjects, but how can it not inspire? Everytime I see the morning light shining green through the leaves my heart beats a little bit faster.

Send me your writings, so that they may be put up! This week's featured poet will be Robert Frost, as recommended by my friend Daniel (his favorite), so that will be up soon, I promise!  If you have any Frost poems you'd like to see along with the feature, you're also free to email them to me. Again, my email address is:

growupandblowaway@gmail.com

I hope to hear from you guys soon <3




SJ

#2

i have awoke
at all ages
to fading orange lights

histrionic
and tiny

and clawing
at the inside
of my head

wanting to fade
back into
sleep

and pack my bags
tiptoe from the
palace

and crawl
from the edge
of my eyelids

to
freedom

emily dickinson

I mentioned previously that I was planning on doing features regularly on famous poets, why they're important, etc. I'm going to start off this feature with the beautiful late Emily Dickinson, a very influencial American poet. I want to dedicate this to my friend Sarah, because Emily is her favorite, and she inspired me to create this little place! So Sarah, this one is for you.

Emily was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830, and during her lifetime wrote over 1800 poems, most of which were only published after her death. She was a reclusive woman, though she had many friends that she wrote letters to frequently. She never married, and was notorious for only wearing white in the latter parts of her life. She kept an interesting and mysterious correspondance with Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a literary critic, in which she described herself physically as:


"... I am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur, and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves..."

Thanks to Emily's sister Lavinia, her poetry was published about 4 years or so after she died. She definitely had no concept of the level of fame she would achieve - she's been dead for 122 years, and she's still one of the famous poets that has ever lived, and certainly the most famous female poet of all time. She changed the way poetry was written, using slant verse and ballad formats for many of her poems, and also her unusual use of capitalization and punctuation. Nobody in the 1800s wrote poetry the way she did, with the consequence that some of her works that were published during her lifetime were edited to fit the "poetic criteria" of the day. She was truly a pioneer.


Here is one of her most famous poems - I'm sure many of you have already read this, but for those that haven't, I encourage you to. And I guess if you have already, drinking in her lovely immortal words again won't hurt.


because i could not stop for death

"Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess in the ring
We passed the fields of gazing grain
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us
The dews drew quivering and chill
For only Gossamer, my gown
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the GROUND
The roof was scarcely visible
The cornice in the ground.

Since then 'tis centuries and yet
Feels shorter than the DAY
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity."

So beautiful. And thats all about Emily!

Whose your favorite poet?


SJ

#1

i am a correlation of soft blended colours

bleeding over a white surface, overthrowing

tabula rasa's strange, muted tyranny

pushed forward

only by time's delicate sway as it reaches out

fingers like tiny galaxies to touch gravity,

whose slender back is forever turned, a stubborn

orpheus, and i am eurydice, woven chains of

bright winking sunflowers binding me to him,

as i am dragged along, fated to float through

time's gray-static sea, or to drown in hissing darkness,

to disappear completely. 

- 

I want to start off the prompts with something simple and fun. So write a poem about whatever you're doing right now, or something you did today that had any sort of impact on you - whether it made you laugh or cry or stare in awkward horror. Send me poems, people! I figure I'll also post prompts if anybody actually writes them.



SJ

a brief introduction

Hello, everybody!

I thought I'd start off this new blog with an introductory post about what this blog will be (or rather what I hope it will be).

My intent, I suppose, is to start a sort of poetry commune. Primarily, I will be posting my own poetry, which you are free to say anything about, good or bad. But several times a month, or so I hope, I will have other things to offer.


Once a week or so, a featured poet, with 2-3 poems by said poet. To submit to this, you can email me your poetry and some things about yourself! you can also send me your art or pictures if you'd like them featured along with your poems.


Reviews of poems/books of poem by poets both old & new, which people are also free to contribute if you'd like! also send these to me via email.

Some poetry writing prompts, which will hopefully be daily!


Brief biographies and some poems by famous poets that are inspirational, which you're also free to contribute to (again with the email).

... and hopefully some more stuff later on, including features about poetry events across Canada (or Internationally, you guys should especially email me information about this stuff if you have it!), maybe some contests, and other things. I am completely open to any ideas, so feel free to email me with those, as well!

I can be reached through growupandblowaway@gmail.com, so the sooner you start sending me ideas/poems/information/criticism/etc, the better. Happy reading & writing!