tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67635788090004463452024-02-08T03:58:41.279-08:00every branch bears wordsla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-51165579427091030732011-09-19T09:41:00.000-07:002011-09-19T09:42:32.138-07:00spines<div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So here are my recommendations! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>1. "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" by William Blake.</i></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.levity.com/alchemy/images/blake_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.levity.com/alchemy/images/blake_1.jpg" width="216" /></a><a href="http://www.levity.com/alchemy/images/blake_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a>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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>2. "Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61XXC5DOQ4L._SL350_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61XXC5DOQ4L._SL350_.jpg" width="205" /></a>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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>3. "Howl and Other Poems" by Allen Ginsberg.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.campusbookstore.com/image.aspx?isbn=9780872860179&size=Large" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.campusbookstore.com/image.aspx?isbn=9780872860179&size=Large" width="253" /></a>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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Thats all for now, folks. Happy reading! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What are some of your favorite poets or works of poetry?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">SJ</div>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-1392324080826929282011-09-04T19:32:00.000-07:002011-09-04T19:33:42.716-07:00#13<div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I recently did a guest post on my friend Sarah's pretty lil' blog, <a href="http://atlanticatlantis.blogspot.com/">Atlantic Atlantis</a>, along with some other very talented ladies. Check it out! Her blog is a wonderful read.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"in search of poetry amidst</div><div style="text-align: justify;">shining cobalt tincans</div><div style="text-align: justify;">that reflect noisy midnights,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">the constant tinkling of bells</div><div style="text-align: justify;">that single the gentle clink</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of amber glass</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i search for music in the beeping</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of scanners, their angry crimson gaze</div><div style="text-align: justify;">in the grinding of meats, the gentle</div><div style="text-align: justify;">sawing of blades through soft,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">warm bread</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i search for meaning</div><div style="text-align: justify;">in the unfocused eye</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of middle-aged men,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">the soft rumbling of</div><div style="text-align: justify;">change in their pockets</div><div style="text-align: justify;">their sour smells that hang</div><div style="text-align: justify;">onto worn t-shirts</div><div style="text-align: justify;">and torn jeans</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">each pebble in the carpets</div><div style="text-align: justify;">tells the history of those</div><div style="text-align: justify;">who have walked these</div><div style="text-align: justify;">floors, broken glass maps</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of parties that have long been over</div><div style="text-align: justify;">the footprints are ghosts</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of lives that have wandered off</div><div style="text-align: justify;">elsewhere"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">SJ</div>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-51373460341931774432011-08-09T22:08:00.000-07:002011-08-09T22:08:51.067-07:00#12<div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This poem here is prompt #140 for <a href="http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/">One Single Impression</a>, the theme was "dreams". 'tis only a little thing, but I felt like jumping onto the raft again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">- </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i cannot fathom </div><div style="text-align: justify;">returning to the other side</div><div style="text-align: justify;">when here, </div><div style="text-align: justify;">i am an empress</div><div style="text-align: justify;">wrapped in layers of cloth </div><div style="text-align: justify;">embroidered</div><div style="text-align: justify;">with all the fables of the world</div><div style="text-align: justify;">my throne seated atop </div><div style="text-align: justify;">a mountain of </div><div style="text-align: justify;">sugar that </div><div style="text-align: justify;">laughs in sweetened tones</div><div style="text-align: justify;">at the absurdity of it all</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">SJ </div>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-63118996086553832262011-07-26T09:35:00.000-07:002011-07-26T09:35:57.903-07:00#11This is prompt #178 for <a href="http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/">One Single Impression</a>. The topic this week was "need". Enjoy, my darlings.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
it is in desire<br />
for the softest flesh<br />
that i sit beneath this <br />
tree, the wind surging<br />
through its leaves<br />
like a stampede of ghosts<br />
the stars blinking<br />
in silent fatigue<br />
<br />
and i imagine its flavor<br />
as my teeth break through<br />
the papery skin, its sweetness<br />
flowing against my tongue.<br />
i beg gravity to grant me this wish - <br />
the rubyred glittering<br />
apple that sits atop the highest branch,<br />
like a crown.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-962649333390161062011-07-25T08:10:00.000-07:002011-07-25T08:11:32.573-07:00#10This was the 45th prompt for Jingle Poetry's <a href="http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2011/07/poetry-potluck-week-45-nature-and-life.html">Poetry Potluck</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.scenicsensations.com/images/grosmornenfldmisc/IMG_3207greenpoint_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.scenicsensations.com/images/grosmornenfldmisc/IMG_3207greenpoint_1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
i recognize the sounds<br />
of the world waking up,<br />
the sun yawning whisps of<br />
foamy clouds across the infant sky<br />
<br />
and my feet touch the world's heart<br />
as they move with me, crawling over<br />
the detritus of summer like ants<br />
weaving between the white trees<br />
<br />
who stand solitary, their slender bodies<br />
leaning back in rapture as they have done<br />
since they were first ravaged by our winds -<br />
fierce lovers, abstract artists<br />
<br />
who on quiet days, gently kiss their masterpieces<br />
admire their tender quills like tiny hands<br />
reaching out to catch the rain, to hold<br />
the sun like a warm stone in emerald palms<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-77582752900063151122011-07-19T03:18:00.000-07:002011-07-19T03:18:32.414-07:00#9This is prompt #177 for <a href="http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/">One Single Impression</a>! The theme is "phantom". <br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
death has made a voyeur of me,<br />
seating me here behind reality's thin curtain - <br />
this fate is not a pleasant one,<br />
doomed to watch as life<br />
continues on like waves crashing <br />
ceaselessly, watching those<br />
who are born die, and life<br />
begin anew, seeing the microscopic<br />
details of disease and the macroscopic<br />
of people, like insects across blue satin<br />
<br />
and each time you peel<br />
aside the curtain<br />
all they hear is the rattling<br />
of chains; which they ignore,<br />
blaming it on the wind, hoping<br />
nobody notices the goosebumps<br />
rising along their spine<br />
like raindrops dotting a<br />
skyscraper, glowing in<br />
the lights of traffic. <br />
<br />
<br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-21603087645744600002011-07-18T21:29:00.000-07:002011-07-18T21:48:46.797-07:00#8<i>July 18th, 2011</i><br />
<br />
<i>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><br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
i cannot comprehend why it is only now<br />
that the occupying crimsons and azures<br />
have chosen to fade to muted violet<br />
while the clock's hands echo and click<br />
in the corner, like tapshoes<br />
like a loose hinge<br />
<br />
our pale skin falls to the floor<br />
perpetually, mechanically, <br />
only to grow back as the sun rises again<br />
the room's scent growing faint and trembling<br />
as the air staggers home to bloom again<br />
and our bodies are reborn<br />
<br />
knowing they are watched by constellations<br />
who recline, lazily wrapped in morning's silver veil,<br />
waiting like ballerinas in velvet-lined wings<br />
to dance forward across a dead sky<br />
to correlate the freckles on our hands<br />
into maps<br />
<br />
to pull us across the glowing desert<br />
of the mind, fearing the eruption of storms<br />
each time our snow globe skulls begin to shake<br />
ferociously, the sky falling down in exhaustion<br />
as thin light pirouettes across our landscape<br />
and we drop once more into sleepla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-61578898434144499252011-07-13T07:04:00.000-07:002011-07-13T07:05:25.226-07:00#7<i>July 13th, 2011</i> <br />
<br />
boys larger than the sunset's magnitude of shadow<br />
clear dust and gravel along the pavement,<br />
playfully creating storms of pale grit<br />
carried lazily by the small afternoon breeze<br />
<br />
but they are mindful of me<br />
buried under my mismatched layers<br />
of old press board and tobacco leaves<br />
in the earth, sending up smoke signals as i watch<br />
<br />
with worn glassy eyes thin golden arms<br />
laced with blue veins, and recall jackets<br />
sinking slowly into filthy puddles of water,<br />
soaking up an entire day and turning from <br />
<br />
black to brown, wondering if a day was just <br />
twenty-four long hours, condensed to a puddle<br />
on a downtown street in autumn, lights turning red,<br />
and tiny feet carrying me into tomorrow. <br />
<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-11612565792673314242011-07-09T16:52:00.000-07:002011-07-09T16:52:37.721-07:00#62008, 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.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
<br />
clusters of cold human faces <br />
set into frowning, crackled molds <br />
are hovering like marionettes on invisible wire<br />
over the sky-painted streets.<br />
<br />
the bus stops are filled with smoke,<br />
magician's disappearing acts <br />
which leave only ashes <br />
and transparent ghosts of words on flaking benches. <br />
<br />
the sour taste of cold metal keys <br />
at the back of everybody's throats; <br />
the spark of dying bulbs as they flicker<br />
like dim signals of distress over oil-steeped water. <br />
<br />
girls in plaid and steel observe the stars <br />
melting into dawn like mints under their own tongues, <br />
raise their arms longer than sentences,<br />
shorter than silence, <br />
until they could be waving aside the gray <br />
coiling clouds like golden giants, <br />
wanting to feel that moisture against their fingertips,<br />
to feel it snaking down thin white wrists, <br />
serpentine and acidic.la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-62641174947248074582011-06-14T12:22:00.000-07:002011-06-14T18:30:31.553-07:00Robert Frost.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b5/Robert_Frost_NYWTS.jpg/460px-Robert_Frost_NYWTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b5/Robert_Frost_NYWTS.jpg/460px-Robert_Frost_NYWTS.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br />
At my good friend Daniel's request, I will be writing this post about Robert Frost, who is his favorite.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"I can sum up in three words everything I've learned about life -- it goes on." </i></div><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"I had a lover's quarrel with the world."</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A beautiful line from one of his poems.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So why is Frost such an important poet?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">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".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i></div><i>Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,<br />
And sorry I could not travel both<br />
And be one traveler, long I stood<br />
And looked down one as far as I could<br />
To where it bent in the undergrowth;<br />
<br />
Then took the other, as just as fair,<br />
And having perhaps the better claim,<br />
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;<br />
Though as for that the passing there<br />
Had worn them really about the same,<br />
<br />
And both that morning equally lay<br />
In leaves no step had trodden black.<br />
Oh, I kept the first for another day!<br />
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,<br />
I doubted if I should ever come back.<br />
<br />
I shall be telling this with a sigh<br />
Somewhere ages and ages hence:<br />
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—<br />
I took the one less traveled by,<br />
And that has made all the difference.</i> <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><i><br />
</i><br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-72167724816241893622011-06-08T06:48:00.000-07:002011-06-08T06:52:05.196-07:00#5From 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). <br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
they say she was an octave below <br />
the title of mistress, lady, gunslinger <br />
of his supposed holy war.<br />
<br />
his eggshell teeth hard as slate, diamonds,<br />
paper-boy hat askew while he <br />
played the tambourine for her body.<br />
<br />
someday (while swallowing oriental leaves,<br />
his tonsils scratched by their cross-stitched<br />
brown hands, fingers spread, as though welcoming)<br />
he would imagine her as substance and pray <br />
on her sister's wooden pearls <br />
for the sight of her coral-reef, <br />
rippled beauty to materialize for his pen, <br />
for his physical shell to stop alienating. <br />
<br />
instead she melts into the slick, <br />
frictionless agony of night, <br />
knowing he will never grow while held <br />
in the promise of something black, <br />
not her skyscraper fingertips crushing <br />
into his eavesdropped world.<br />
<br />
a country where it is dusk;<br />
the sky is overdosing on too many thoughts,<br />
and crawling home for her bones.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
SJ<br />
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New prompt?! Write a poem about something blue. It doesn't matter what. Just do it.la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-32126622252153728862011-06-05T09:18:00.001-07:002011-06-05T09:26:12.401-07:00#4<style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">rough draft. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">- </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">my friends & i</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">we bear imaginary children</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">in the caverns of our minds</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">compare the luminous sparkle of </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">emerald eyes</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">to our own </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">to the strange searchlights</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">of former lovers</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">wishing to cast off two headed<br />
monsters </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">who suck the pale pink sweetness of electricity </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">from fragile forms</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">tearing their way inside </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">with sharpened talons pointed at<br />
the fluttering throats<br />
of swans<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">tearful words that plead<br />
to spare sculpture, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">eyes frightened of torn painted worlds, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">feet filled with crumbling plaster</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">constructed tin islands from ashtrays </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">which are smoldered upon<br />
the shells of bodies</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">breasts and hips </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">drifting along calmly </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">gray mirazes like clouds</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">they could pass through </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">with only the lightest exhale</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">at the end of the day<br />
we stand in dusk's<br />
marble blue snow<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">watch as the headlights fall from</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">the moist hilltops<br />
like pearls from a broken string</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">they scream<br />
like our own monsters in the darkness </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
as the stars are lighted one by one </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">by god's weary hands</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">guiding us </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">gently into a still violet morning </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">where we simply are </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">no </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">one<br />
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SJ </div>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-21754788436882032062011-06-01T08:45:00.000-07:002011-06-02T10:55:52.339-07:00#3This 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.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
shouting hello from the opaline rooftops<br />
of this firefly city,<br />
cradling my epic collection<br />
of concerns.<br />
<br />
seated here between flesh-colored,<br />
breathing walls,<br />
filling invisible cages<br />
with hazy thoughts<br />
drawn by children in chalk.<br />
they resemble missing string<br />
cat's cradle patterns.<br />
<br />
there's a girl wearing<br />
judas tree flowers<br />
in a serpentine coil around<br />
her shell-like form.<br />
she is unraveling slowly through<br />
a labyrinth of broken windows<br />
(you say<br />
i bore this maze)<br />
<br />
not a hair touches the<br />
fractured panes, her<br />
cold flesh strays from<br />
broken glass<br />
<br />
she wants the knowledge<br />
at the end, she wants<br />
the quiescent bones<br />
fashioned into a harp<br />
that will sing to her<br />
in veracious tones<br />
<br />
desires the bitter taste<br />
of dust, to wake up at the depths<br />
of the ocean, all things<br />
azure<br />
<br />
(a glass of water<br />
at the foot of your bed)<br />
<br />
crawling through the fibers of time<br />
as they loosen,<br />
<br />
she knows how all this will<br />
deconstruct, whose hands<br />
will tear out the first<br />
shred<br />
<br />
but she has only<br />
shown me<br />
snapshots.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
Now, friends. Its time for prompt #2! For me this week, <b>I want you to write a poem about summertime</b>. 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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
growupandblowaway@gmail.com<br />
<br />
I hope to hear from you guys soon <3<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>SJ</i>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-56480839395341439432011-05-29T17:40:00.000-07:002011-05-29T17:40:04.021-07:00#2i have awoke<br />
at all ages<br />
to fading orange lights<br />
<br />
histrionic<br />
and tiny<br />
<br />
and clawing<br />
at the inside <br />
of my head<br />
<br />
wanting to fade <br />
back into<br />
sleep<br />
<br />
and pack my bags<br />
tiptoe from the<br />
palace<br />
<br />
and crawl<br />
from the edge<br />
of my eyelids<br />
<br />
to<br />
freedomla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-52142022118878704552011-05-26T11:52:00.000-07:002011-05-26T11:52:34.702-07:00emily dickinson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/cb/Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg/483px-Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/cb/Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg/483px-Emily_Dickinson_daguerreotype.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br />
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 <b>Emily Dickinson</b>, a very influencial American poet. I want to dedicate this to my friend <a href="http://atlanticatlantis.blogspot.com/">Sarah</a>, because Emily is her favorite, and she inspired me to create this little place! So Sarah, this one is for you. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>"... 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..."</i><br />
<br />
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 <i>were</i> published during her lifetime were edited to fit the "poetic criteria" of the day. She was truly a pioneer.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
<u><i>because i could not stop for death </i></u><br />
<br />
"Because I could not stop for Death<br />
He kindly stopped for me<br />
The Carriage held but just Ourselves<br />
And Immortality.<br />
<br />
We slowly drove, he knew no haste<br />
And I had put away<br />
My labor and my leisure too,<br />
For his civility.<br />
<br />
We passed the School, where Children strove<br />
At recess in the ring<br />
We passed the fields of gazing grain<br />
We passed the setting sun.<br />
<br />
Or rather, he passed us<br />
The dews drew quivering and chill<br />
For only Gossamer, my gown<br />
My tippet only tulle.<br />
<br />
We paused before a house that seemed<br />
A swelling of the GROUND<br />
The roof was scarcely visible<br />
The cornice in the ground.<br />
<br />
Since then 'tis centuries and yet<br />
Feels shorter than the DAY<br />
I first surmised the horses' heads<br />
Were toward eternity."<br />
<br />
So beautiful. And thats all about Emily!<br />
<br />
Whose <i>your </i>favorite poet?<br />
<br />
<br />
SJla fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-76693604395467080402011-05-25T12:38:00.000-07:002011-05-25T12:46:43.568-07:00#1<style>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">i am a correlation of soft blended colours</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">bleeding over a white surface, overthrowing </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">tabula rasa's strange, muted tyranny </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">pushed forward</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">only by time's delicate sway as it reaches out </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">fingers like tiny galaxies to touch gravity,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">whose slender back is forever turned, a stubborn</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">orpheus, and i am eurydice, woven chains of </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">bright winking sunflowers binding me to him, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">as i am dragged along, fated to float through </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">time's gray-static sea, or to drown in hissing darkness, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">to disappear completely. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">- </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div>I want to start off the prompts with something simple and fun. So <b>write a poem about whatever you're doing right now, or something you did today </b>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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>SJ</i>la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763578809000446345.post-48072455457538690082011-05-24T12:58:00.000-07:002011-05-25T12:49:24.699-07:00a brief introductionHello, everybody! <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Once a week or so, a featured poet, with 2-3 poems by said poet</b></span></i>. 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.<br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Reviews of poems/books of poem by poets both old & new</b></i>, which people are also free to contribute if you'd like! also send these to me via email. <br />
<br />
<i><b>Some poetry writing prompts</b></i>, which will hopefully be daily!<br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Brief biographies and some poems by famous poets</b></i> that are inspirational, which you're also free to contribute to (again with the email).<br />
<br />
... 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! <br />
<br />
I can be reached through <i><b>growupandblowaway@gmail.com</b></i>, so the sooner you start sending me ideas/poems/information/criticism/etc, the better. Happy reading & writing!la fillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02074199795612030053noreply@blogger.com0