Love Song to Summer

My newest poem. Prose. Thing. It's quite a bit better than the last, I think.

The blue vessel sits, solitary and neglected, downstairs
Silver spokes reflecting dimly the light of the single window 
Surrounded by so many other things neglected and forgotten -
But it is not their season. 

My soul cries out as if to some departed lover
Summer, where have you gone?
For I loved you while you remained, giving me your heat
Showing me the glorious life sheltered under your wings.

Brown-skinned and content, I played under your skies
Like a youth, forgetting
The change would come, the cycles re-turn,
As I happily rode my own cycle down lanes and avenues.

The cold fingers of winter are slowly loosening their grip
Afraid to let go, or perhaps jealous.
But I feel the promise of my lover's return in the air
In the steadily growing light, the softened grass underfoot. 

The birds fly by, sparrows singing the herald-song
Finches giving promises of budded trees and blooming flowers
Even crows, gathered in their murders, gossip -
For summer, the time for living, is coming.

And I count down the days and await through long hours
The lonely cycle haunting me between thoughts of you. 
I have grown and changed since last you saw me. 
Will you know me?

Can we be as we once were,
When your arms cradled me, surrounding me with light
Heating the earth under my feet, that I would be warm
Caressing my face with your fine daphne-scented breezes?

The other seasons courted me, but I have remained steadfast
Faithful to you, my first love. 
Return, that I may bask in your glorious days
That I may rejoice in the beauty of your nights. 

Return for the sake of the promise
That all that is left is not forgotten.

 

Odes and the Weather

So the weather has finally reflected the turning towards the autumnal equinox - and the very first day post-fair, too, which shows a little more taste than is usually seen on behalf of the usual Pacific Northwestern weather.

Unfortunately, that also meant that this morning I had to clothe myself in not only sweats-and-tee-shirt garb, but also don my fleece bathrobe... neither of which has made me particularly happy. So unhappy, in fact, that I deemed it appropriate to compose a poem, an ode to Summer - and had the indecency to attempt to make it rhyme as well; please forgive me. At least it is not a long poem.

Ode to Summer

O where is the fine heat of Summer?
The warmth of bright sunshine, hot on the skin,
Burning, to match the fires within.
O where is the sunshine of Summer?

O where are the blue skies of Summer?
Crystalline skies, cloudless and bright,
To make the earth seem so close to the light:
O, bring back the bright days of Summer!

O where are the soft smells of Summer?
Of quiet and shade, where breezes can play,
And flowers bloom, away from the heat of the day -
O, where are the soft places of Summer?

O where are the brisk sounds of Summer?
Of rivers and brooks, of swift-flowing streams,
Of dragonflies' flight through sunshiny beams,
O, where are the lazy energies of Summer?

O, speed the return of distant days of Summer,
That again may flow the golden heat
And that every morning we can greet
The sun, in those lovely warm days of Summer.

Hopefully by now you're not thoroughly tired of the rhyming and of the repetition of the capitalized "Summer". Though, it must be admitted, if I am sick of Washington's infamous ill-weathered winters inside a single day, I am not going to last very long this season.

Fortunately I have my sewing, crocheting, and tea to fall back on.

Bus Adventures

A woman sits there, not far from me
Her face blotched, her body bloated.
Her piglike eyes look at me, unseeing,
a permanent sneer twisting fat purple lips
in an impartial grimace.
Her hair sprouts from her head, dirty dishwater brown
with scattered bits of gravel grey.
Threads are strewn
about the frame of her expression, and,
at the back,
all individual strands are lost
in a thick, matted clump;
a gourd of hair, whose tip
falls just below her neck.
It seems a cancerous
untended growth,
bloated with years of neglect
textured by an eternity of dirt
and the grime that clings to her clothes
like moss to a dead tree.

Twinkle, Twinkle

Wrote this for my poetry class last quarter, back in October. Not sure why I didn't post it then... ah, well.

The assignment was to take a nursery rhyme and make a poem out of it. I rather like how it turned out, to be honest.

Twinkle, twinkle,
the tiny stars in your eyes!
A glint of light, captured
when you look at me...
How I wonder about the light!
What could you possibly see
in my face
that could make your eyes
twinkle so, like tiny stars
under your fair brow?
You, darling, are above the world –
born to privilege, to high places.
What am I to you,
that stars alight
within your gaze
when you consider me?
You are my life,
the finest jewel in my night.
And yet how your eyes sparkle!
Such stars... reserved, for me?
Twinkle, twinkle, little stars...
how I wonder that you are!

En Ti Vive

I finally have something to write.

I was reading Pablo Neruda, and wanted to write something in Spanish.

It translates rather prettily, I guess, but I have no idea what it actually sounds like in the language I composed it in. Whether or not it flows.

Here. You can have it.

En Ti Vive

en ti, viven los nombres de doscientas mañanas,
y en ti vive la esperanza de los padres.
en ti, vive el sol de cien días de verano,
y en ti vive la luna de cien noches negras.

eres el orgullo de las estrellas,
y la boca de palabras infinitas y silenciosas.
tu aliento es de las brisas del mundo,
y tu lengua toca los labios del viento.

¿quién dice que tu vida no tiene significado?
¿quién dice cual persona es más importante?

todos tocan el mismo viento,
y sus almas cantan la misma canción.
ni te desesperes, ni te quites la esperanza,
porque eres precioso a mí.

And for all those English speakers who are like "Whoa, dude, wtf?!", here's a rough translation:

In You, Live

In you live the names of two hundred tomorrows,
and in you live the hope of fathers.
In you lives the sun of hundred days of summer,
and in you lives the moon of hundred black nights.

You are the pride of the stars,
and the mouth for silent and infinite words.
Your breath is of the breezes of the world,
and your tongue touches the lips of the wind.

Who says your life has no importance?
Who says which person is the greatest?

All touch of the same wind,
and their souls sing the same song.
Do not despair, and do not give up hope,
because you are precious to me.

Shake the Dust

I haven't written for a while, and still can't.

Have this instead.


Quote from a friend:
"you know, theres a time for words and then, then theres a time for sitting back and asking yourself... wtf". - Tracy

Shockingly apt statement, I'd say.

"Death and Life"

– Charles Carroll Bombaugh, Gleanings for the Curious from the Harvest-Fields of Literature, 1890

Briefly Speaking

It's strange

I'd like to sleep...
I'd love to sleep...

I'm so very tired

Tired...

But not sleepy.

I close my eyes
And rest my head
And my mind busies itself

Restlessly self-defeating
My own best intentions

My body cannot remain
Comfortable
I twist and turn
On my usually comfortable mattress

Can I yet sleep?
I am so tired...

My mind must eventually stop

My thoughts must eventually meld
Into the bizarre dreams
And strange images
Which the brink of sleep lends them.

But not yet.
Not until my mind has exhausted itself
Run itself into the ground
Never listening to my own body

Please, stop, it entreats
And my mind listens not
But runs its own course
Robbing me of rest
Of peace and of healing

Can I yet sleep?
I am so very tired.

Today's Composition

So I had poetry class today. I like what I wrote, but I didn't fulfill the assignment (to stay away from abstract concepts and depict only representational visuals), so oh well.

Concepts: Order, War, Solitude, Peace, Hunger

A lily resting on a glassy lake
Is nothing to the placid contentment within.
Alone, I am crowded by my country -
Its turmoil palpable, its quest for justice
Irresistible; hungry as an avalanche
And twice as destructive.
But here in my solitary self, I rest
My soul ordered within me
And I am at peace.

On a completely different note, while I was walking to my Art History class, I passed a bush, and heard these strange high-pitched chirping noises. I looked through the bush and saw this tiny little hummingbird, perched on a tiny little branch, expanding its teensy tiny little red throat and squeak-chirping like I wasn't two feet away and looking right at it. It was fantastic!

Loneliness

I went with my dad to his office so that he could take the carpool lane. While waiting for him to return from his meeting, I finished my book... and so, thinking of my poetry class, wrote the following two poems.

Visit To an Office

An unknown street,
A mystery house,
An alien town.
Wandering through doorways
Down hallways, alleys,
Wandering without purpose
Without meaning
In an unknown land.
Strange pale colours,
Bizarre carpeted floor;
Strangers populate its roads.
These inhabitants do not smile.
Escape is a meaningless word,
And discourse an empty option.
These aliens do not notice the alien
Wandering in their midst,
Do not stop to ask questions -
They stare, and then move about their tasks;
And I, the alien among them,
Don't know what to do with myself.

I hope I don't get lost.

And poem the second:

The Stranded Poet

Single, solitary light -
The others flicker,
But you, faithfully, stay
Lit
A beacon to those
Wandering these halls
And to I, who sits
Pen in hand
Scribbling these thoughts.
You are the one
Who allows me to write
For you are
Both
My inspiration
And my vision;
My enabler
And my guide.
I am lost without you.

Collegiate

Here's a poem I wrote during my poetry class while the teacher rambled on about inconsequential things. I was looking around the room and wondering if I could compose an entire poem about a random object:

Projector

Fine, sleek silver box
Instrument under teacher's hand
Presenting words and images
Meant for guidance

Whirring instructional box
Your eye doesn't absorb, but reflects
For the benefit of all
Who could not learn from you?

Suspended electric box
A source of light and knowledge
Quiet and unassuming -
The projector.

But this poem is my favorite so far. Based on the writing assignment of, "Imagine someone, standing in a doorway, somewhere", I wrote it in its entirety in less than ten minutes, and was the first to finish. Still needs a title, though.

To step through the door
And freeze upon the threshold -
Frozen by the sight before your eyes.
What rare beauty, what fine garment,
What musical speech hath this girl!
Her soft laughter perfumes the air with sound,
And breaks your heart as it does your stride.
Beautiful girl! Grey, ocean-filled eyes,
Watery cascade of sand-golden hair;
She is fluid in motion as the seagull's flight,
Graceful as the lines of the wind-curved dunes.
There is no breath that does not taste
Of her sweet tang whilst she is near,
And when she is absent the mouth is flooded
With the bitter salt of sadness.
Wonderful girl! Whose talents and grace
Break like caressing waves
Upon those fortunate enough
To drown themselves... in you.

Repentence

If you say you're a Christian, this slams you to the wall, lifts you up by the throat, and strikes you through the heart with a stake to keep you up there. Click for bigger view.

Arabic Poetry

Love Compared

I do not resemble your other lovers, my lady

Should another give you a cloud

I give you rain

Should he give you a lantern, I

will give you the moon

Should he give you a branch

I will give you the trees

And if another gives you a ship

I shall give you the journey.

- Nizar Qabbani

Motion Carried

Here. Have a poem.

The rhythm of the lines -
Steady - beat, beat.

Blue bars on a page,
Thick beats on a drum.
Versatility in motion,
In sound, in sight.

Touch the bitter colors
Taste the silken verbs
See the rhythms inside;
Hammering at the walls,
Scratching at my throat.
Dry birds, thick wingbeats,
Buzzing at my fingertips -
Beat, beat, beat...

Steady as a motor,
As a pulse in my wrist.

Hear the shift in motion.
Air thickens, movement
Hastening to keep up -
Beat, beat, beat.

Liquify My Laundry

[ variation ][ zoo humor ][ gay ][ art trade ][ skin tone ][ coupons ]

until the light comes
I am caught within the web
of my subconscious.

Further Explorations, in Verse and Swindling

Hey look, ANOTHER haiku.

floating, so gently
a breath of wind underneath
my wings hold me high

Then you can learn about how to get a free meal at McDonald's.


SeeqPod - Playable Search

I'll admit, I don't like Fall Out Boy's newer sound. They've become a little more punk and a little less rock than I like. But I think I'll keep listening to their original albums - I consistently like the first two.

Images and Poetry

Here are some funny pics that I had saved and then forgotten about. I like them a lot. Here, you can have some. Clicky, clicky!



And now, some haiku. Because I feel like it.

silvery light flows
over my pillow, drowning
me in darkest sleep.

the city awakes
in my mind. I travel down
many avenues.

shall we dance, upon
glassy wooden floors, to a
heated samba beat?

Do You Do Haiku?

curled up, quiet, still
computer hums its white noise
while I surf the web

the hot water boils
but I do not get up yet
my chair is too comfy.

green tea of jasmine
is altogether soothing -
crunch, goes the cracker.

[ flowchart ] [ drink ]