Friday, September 30, 2005
the day of doom. . .
I got a copy of city weekly this afternoon, and alas, I did not get published *kicks a rock* dang it, I'm never going to get published anywhere, this writer stuff can be mighty frustrating
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Awareness
I read this in poetasters tonight, and i realize I've got to put another stanza in to help explain some things (probably will be the stanza I orginally cut out) but for now, this is how it goes
Awareness
Somebody else's war
is in my heart and the pink
ribbon to expose the truth on my breast
changed into lead last week,
pulled me down near my shoes.
They shuffled through leaves
fallen off the arms of trees, covering
a trail no one wants to take
but too many women hike every day.
Shifting from plank, to cobra,
to downward facing dog, I breathe.
My heart takes up a sword
to fight her battle. twentyseven years ago
the war was lost with Grandma,
and their forces decided to rally again
against us. They push forward, their armor
crashing, the chain mail glinting
in the sunlight. I slip into triangle posture
readying my single force, watching the enemy rise
over the hill, trudging towards me.
Ok, yes, it's about my mother and her cancer, and about how I'm bound to get it some day too (read my rantings page for the story--"My mom was sick" post) but I'm curious what everyone's first reaction to this is, how they view this poem, and what I should fix. i think this one might actually go somewhere!
Awareness
Somebody else's war
is in my heart and the pink
ribbon to expose the truth on my breast
changed into lead last week,
pulled me down near my shoes.
They shuffled through leaves
fallen off the arms of trees, covering
a trail no one wants to take
but too many women hike every day.
Shifting from plank, to cobra,
to downward facing dog, I breathe.
My heart takes up a sword
to fight her battle. twentyseven years ago
the war was lost with Grandma,
and their forces decided to rally again
against us. They push forward, their armor
crashing, the chain mail glinting
in the sunlight. I slip into triangle posture
readying my single force, watching the enemy rise
over the hill, trudging towards me.
Ok, yes, it's about my mother and her cancer, and about how I'm bound to get it some day too (read my rantings page for the story--"My mom was sick" post) but I'm curious what everyone's first reaction to this is, how they view this poem, and what I should fix. i think this one might actually go somewhere!
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Night sky
I lied. My next poem's entitled "Night sky" because "Hesitating Beauty" decided it wants to be a short-short instead. go figure.
here ya go though, first daft, but I'll fix it up a bit and post it again--once I have a few people rip it to shreds
Night Sky
My heart is stuck
to the stars, as much as I pull
away and try to cut free,
it only damages me.
Nights spent in big cities,
buildings full of lights tower
above me. Flashing signs, glowing
bulbs sear their image in my eyes.
I feel a twinkle high above me tap
my heart and tug
at the arteries, but I can’t see
where it comes from.
Street lamps light up
the neighborhood, chase away
the darkness that lets pinpricks
shine, force their way
through the cloth.
Joe told me that it was a brave
hummingbird who rescued
everyone from a world of darkness.
The bears couldn’t rip holes
in the fabric, the coyotes tried
to tear it with their teeth. A tiny
bird, with vibrating wings poked
holes in the blackness
so we could lay on the tin roof, bundled
in sleeping bags and blankets to create
pictures of our own, in the stars blinking
above as they lowered an invisible thread,
tied a bowline around my heart, a string
strong enough to snap the scissors
of the three muses.
here ya go though, first daft, but I'll fix it up a bit and post it again--once I have a few people rip it to shreds
Night Sky
My heart is stuck
to the stars, as much as I pull
away and try to cut free,
it only damages me.
Nights spent in big cities,
buildings full of lights tower
above me. Flashing signs, glowing
bulbs sear their image in my eyes.
I feel a twinkle high above me tap
my heart and tug
at the arteries, but I can’t see
where it comes from.
Street lamps light up
the neighborhood, chase away
the darkness that lets pinpricks
shine, force their way
through the cloth.
Joe told me that it was a brave
hummingbird who rescued
everyone from a world of darkness.
The bears couldn’t rip holes
in the fabric, the coyotes tried
to tear it with their teeth. A tiny
bird, with vibrating wings poked
holes in the blackness
so we could lay on the tin roof, bundled
in sleeping bags and blankets to create
pictures of our own, in the stars blinking
above as they lowered an invisible thread,
tied a bowline around my heart, a string
strong enough to snap the scissors
of the three muses.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
my three words
I was wrong when I mentioned the three words I was given, I actually had 'squelch', 'bastard', and 'permanent record'. I didn't like working with those words, but after reading more of White Oleander, I started with something like Fitch does, she plays off the heat of California, and the fires as a marking for Astrid, the start of a year for her after her mother leaves. so i took the line "The heat tells the stories" and played around with it, and here's what I got.
Permanent Record
The heat tells the stories
here, squelching out everything
else, a dull ringing left
in memories that you thought
you created, moldeed
in the clay of your history,
brought to life
in your actions.
But as the temperature rises, you melt
into forgetfulness, losing
yesterday, the day you ran
after the neighbor's dog. Misplacing
last year, curing your bastard
father into oblivion, forfeiting
the first day in detention
your freshman year.
Sun beating into pavements writes
your history, all the stories blurred
edges of memory, until it's all heat-stained
days, waiting for
the air conditioner to work again.
bleh--I'm not so sure about it, but we'll see how it goes. for a rough draft it's not too shabby, and there are a few things I like, some of the metaphors and the like, but yeah. I really don't like having to put swear words into my writing, it doesn't please me one bit. Thus is life when I have a teacher who will say openly "Oh, blow me," when he's sick of debating. it's such an interesting class though.
Permanent Record
The heat tells the stories
here, squelching out everything
else, a dull ringing left
in memories that you thought
you created, moldeed
in the clay of your history,
brought to life
in your actions.
But as the temperature rises, you melt
into forgetfulness, losing
yesterday, the day you ran
after the neighbor's dog. Misplacing
last year, curing your bastard
father into oblivion, forfeiting
the first day in detention
your freshman year.
Sun beating into pavements writes
your history, all the stories blurred
edges of memory, until it's all heat-stained
days, waiting for
the air conditioner to work again.
bleh--I'm not so sure about it, but we'll see how it goes. for a rough draft it's not too shabby, and there are a few things I like, some of the metaphors and the like, but yeah. I really don't like having to put swear words into my writing, it doesn't please me one bit. Thus is life when I have a teacher who will say openly "Oh, blow me," when he's sick of debating. it's such an interesting class though.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
City Weekly's poetry contest
well, not just poetry, but that's what I'm submitting. it's actually fiction, essay, and poetry (but not creative non-fiction, think that falls under essay? I'm not sure. . .)
anyway, here's what I'm thinking about submitting:
Sucker
You overflow into
my brain, push,
press, tap, bleed down
my spine spreading
out like the apsen
tree that takes
over our front
yard. I spray weed
killer, pull, chop,
mow to get
rid of new
sprouts. The green
still broke
through the dirt.
You push
out through my eyes,
clear and wet,
drip down my
face, fall over
my teeth, expressing
yourself in my words.
The title, I'm unsure about, my prof recommended it, since it's the secondary shoot starting from the base of the plant, and it kinda fits in, but I'm not sure yet. the line breaks I'm still playing with as well, but for now, I kinda like it.
and can I just say, I'm reading "White Oleander" again, and it's still one of the most poetic books I've read in a while, I can open almost any page and find something that's just amazing. "At Christmas time, it was hot again, and smog lay thick over the Valley, like a vast headache over a defeated terrain, abscuring the mountains" (p. 177) ok, so I admit, that's not the best, but that's pretty good. Vast is a good word, I like it.
I was also given an assignment for my current poetry class, assigned three words (and I had to give up my 3 words) and I hate them already. off the top of my head, I had parole, bastard, and life-sentence, or something like that. Granted, since they all go together I can pull something out of a hat, but I hate swear words, I hate them with the passion of a thousand spaniards, and now I have to write a poem, and put my name by it that has that word in it. Oy, as soon as this assignment gets turned it, that word is gone, shoot, the whole poem might even be gone. . .good thing it's labor day weekend, and I can work something out tomorrow.
anyway, if anyone's interested in submitting something to City Weekly, it must be shorter than 1,000 words, and be in their office by 5pm on sept. 7th to
City Weekly's
7th Annual Literary Contest
248 South Main Street
SLC, UT 84101
and I bet you can find the rest of the info online, because I don't want to type anymore tonight. I hope with labor day mine will get there on time. . .
anyway, here's what I'm thinking about submitting:
Sucker
You overflow into
my brain, push,
press, tap, bleed down
my spine spreading
out like the apsen
tree that takes
over our front
yard. I spray weed
killer, pull, chop,
mow to get
rid of new
sprouts. The green
still broke
through the dirt.
You push
out through my eyes,
clear and wet,
drip down my
face, fall over
my teeth, expressing
yourself in my words.
The title, I'm unsure about, my prof recommended it, since it's the secondary shoot starting from the base of the plant, and it kinda fits in, but I'm not sure yet. the line breaks I'm still playing with as well, but for now, I kinda like it.
and can I just say, I'm reading "White Oleander" again, and it's still one of the most poetic books I've read in a while, I can open almost any page and find something that's just amazing. "At Christmas time, it was hot again, and smog lay thick over the Valley, like a vast headache over a defeated terrain, abscuring the mountains" (p. 177) ok, so I admit, that's not the best, but that's pretty good. Vast is a good word, I like it.
I was also given an assignment for my current poetry class, assigned three words (and I had to give up my 3 words) and I hate them already. off the top of my head, I had parole, bastard, and life-sentence, or something like that. Granted, since they all go together I can pull something out of a hat, but I hate swear words, I hate them with the passion of a thousand spaniards, and now I have to write a poem, and put my name by it that has that word in it. Oy, as soon as this assignment gets turned it, that word is gone, shoot, the whole poem might even be gone. . .good thing it's labor day weekend, and I can work something out tomorrow.
anyway, if anyone's interested in submitting something to City Weekly, it must be shorter than 1,000 words, and be in their office by 5pm on sept. 7th to
City Weekly's
7th Annual Literary Contest
248 South Main Street
SLC, UT 84101
and I bet you can find the rest of the info online, because I don't want to type anymore tonight. I hope with labor day mine will get there on time. . .
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