Well, this is a rough book review of all the books I’ve read this year, written with the most recently read books first. I’m not a pro at giving reviews and don’t claim to be. I’m writing this because I want others to read these books, most of them, to share my enjoyment and have people to discuss the books with, ‘cause I love that. My synopses are probably not that great compared to how the books actually are, but I try. In the end, I really did enjoy most of these books, so I hope you can give some of them a shot. And I’ve still got so much more to read…
Also, some books I just consider really good reads, like I could read them again and again without trouble, and others I consider classics, that I’m glad to have read at least once, but might still be hard to read again. You’ll have to decide for yourself which one I mean from my rating and subsequently written opinion. And in general, I probably give away high scores too easily, but that’s just how I do things.
* Means I’ve read the book(s) in previous years
Rating System as follows
10/10 = Classic in my opinion
9.5/10 = Almost Classic / Brilliant and Imaginative Story
9/10 = Classic of genre I’m not as taken with / Very enjoyable read
8.5/10 = Very good read that lacked only a little something
8/10 = Enjoyable and Interesting read, but perhaps harder to recommend to all audiences
7/10 = Enjoyable, but not up to par. Probably won’t be reread.
• Leviathan Trilogy by Scott Westerfield
o Leviathan 9/10
o Behemoth 9/10
o Goliath (Not yet released)
Story: World War I is breaking out, but this is an alternate history with evolutionarily engineered creatures on one side and advanced mechanics on the other. At the center of this novel are two young teens – Alek, the now orphaned prince of Austria-Hungary on the run from Germans, and Deryn, a girl disguised as a guy in order to join the British Air Force. In time they find themselves together aboard the Leviathan, a giant flying creature on a peacekeeping mission.
First Introduction to the book: Some books I read because they are recommended to me and others I read because I try them and like them. Such was the case with the first of these books. I finished it sitting at the Starbucks in Barnes & Noble.
Opinion: This alternate history is well thought out and believable. I also enjoy the fact that the “coincidences” in this book don’t feel like coincidences. I never felt like the author was molding the book to his will. Overall, the books are very enjoyable. I especially enjoy the fact that within the book are illustrations of what’s going on which helps the book considerably to aid in the imagination of the reader. It adds to the humor as well. The final book isn’t out yet, but so far I strongly believe it will be good, as there wasn’t much of a difference, style-wise, between the first two books and they were both great. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait til Sept. 2011. ☹
• The Lost Hero by Rick Riordan 9/10
Story: Jason wakes up on a bus next to a girl who claims to be his girlfriend and a guy who claims to be his best friend, only who has no idea who they are, or who he is. And soon after a series of crazy events, he’s told he’s a demi-god and he has to go on a mission to save the queen of the gods, lest a new enemy awaken. And in this sequel to the Percy Jackson series, Percy Jackson has gone missing.
First Introduction to the book: A friend who also likes this series let me know it was coming out, so, naturally, I pre-ordered it.
Opinion: One of the things I most enjoy about this book is that it that the style of narration is different than that of the Percy Jackson series, so though it is a sequel, it doesn’t feel like only “more of the same.” The new characters and perspectives are fresh and interesting and the plot is intriguing. As with the other series, however, the plot isn’t always predictable in terms of who appears or where they go.
• Children of the Star by Sylvia Louise Engdahl
o This Star Shall Abide 9/10
o Beyond The Tomorrow Mountains 8/10
o The Doors of the Universe (Not read yet)
Story: On a different world there is a caste system: Scholars have access to all the knowledge, Technicians are the only ones allowed to handle machines, and then the common folk are the ones who farm and do the other jobs of everyday life. There is a prophecy about how one day machines and knowledge will become available to everyone, but Noren is a heretic and doesn’t believe the prophecy. This story is about Noren and his struggle to find truth.
First Introduction to the book: I started reading this series because of my love of “Enchantress from the Stars,” another book by the same author.
Opinion: The story is unique and yet strangely applicable even today. Noren, especially, is a refreshing character that develops over the course of the books. The ideas within the books are also fascinating. The third book, Doors of the Universe, is bigger than the other two and I haven’t read it all yet, but each book, while being direct sequels, can also stand pretty well on its own.
Overall: 8.5/10
• Ascending* by Blaine M Yorganson 8/10
Story: The story is about an albatross from youth to adulthood seeking understanding through the things that happen to him.
First Introduction to the book: I believe my mom got me this book some time ago. We read it together first and I loved it so much that I’ve kept reading it every now and again.
Opinion: I’ve come back to this book several times. I believe this to be the 4th or 5th time I’ve read it and each time I enjoy it. It is essentially a coming of age story about an albatross. A Mormon author wrote it, so it’s no surprise that I agree with many of his insights. The whole story is full of not so hidden symbols, and yet the author researched albatross enough to make these symbols viable and not a stretch. The story is uplifting and motivating with a strong ending.
• Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Bobbitt 8/10
Story: A young girl discovers a family who lives forever because they drank special magical water. However the family views this almost as a curse and believes it would be a bad thing if others find out. A bad man overhears some of this and the young girl has to make some decisions to help protect their secret.
First Introduction to the book: I’d often heard of the story and we’d always had the book in my home, but somehow I never got around to reading it. Then, when we moved, I got to pick the books that I wanted to keep and so among those I picked this one.
Opinion: The story telling is strong and convincing, avoiding sentimentality while teaching a powerful lesson. It’s one of those stories that sticks with you. Also by the same author is the book, “The Search for Delicious,” also an amazing book.
• The Chaos Walking Trilogy by Patrick Ness
o The Knife Of Never Letting Go 9.5/10
o The Ask And The Answer 9/10
o Monsters Of Men 10/10
Story: On a different planet, Todd is the last boy to become a man in his town, a town where there are only men and everyone can hear everyone else’s thoughts. He’s been told that the same disease that created this NOISE also killed off all women, but one day, he finds a girl in the forest…
First Introduction to the book: The first book in the series was recommended to me by amazon.com because I’d been reading the Hunger Games. I treat Barnes & Noble a bit like a library, so I started reading the book there, enjoyed it so much that I began to buy the books online.
Opinion: There are many strengths to this series. First, it creates a believable yet very different world to the one that we now live it. The most interesting sci-fi element is NOISE, the fact that the thoughts of men, and only men, are broadcast in an unending stream. The idea immediately draws you in as both fascinating and scary, and it remains that way throughout. Next, the several characters are all well-fleshed and deep, especially the two main characters, Todd and Viola. Third, each book is very different in the type of story that it tells, in terms of movement and progression. The first story is that of a journey. The second is that of internal struggle both within the characters and within a town. The third story is about war. In this way, the plot is never predictable based on the earlier books. Fourth, the second and third books have multiple narrators and the author does a good job of distinguishing among the three. Overall, the best way that I can describe the series is that they are epic in scope and in imagination. I love the ending.
Overall: 9.5/10
• The Underland Chronicles by Suzanne Collins
o Gregor the Overlander 9/10
o Gregor and the Prophecy of Bane 9/10
o Gregor and the Curse of the Warmbloods 9/10
o Gregor and the Marks of Secret 9/10
o Gregor and the Code of Claw 9/10
Story: Gregor, a young boy, accidentally falls down into a strange land as he tries to look after his younger sister. There he finds creatures of human size and humans as well. There are prophecies about the fate of the land there which call for a Warrior that all believe is Gregor himself.
First Introduction to the book: I’d read the Hunger Games and had this series recommended by amazon.com and then a friend, so my sister bought them for me for my birthday. I promptly read them and now they are with that same sister so that she can read them.
Opinion: This series is a compelling coming of age story, based primarily in a fantasy realm below New York. Although each story has predictable elements, the stories are well thought out and they go together well. The author does a good job of character creation. Many great themes are explored in this series. The ending is okay, and yet I sort of wish there was more.
Overall: 9/10
• Enchantress from the Stars* by Sylvia Louise Engdahl 10/10
Story: Elena is a girl at first sneaks along with her father’s mission to save a less-advanced planet from being taken over or knocked off their natural course of progression by a different human space-faring civilization (i.e. there are three different human civilizations). Soon however, Elena is forced to play a key role, one that she isn’t fully prepared for.
First Introduction to the book: I’d never heard of the book before, but one of my sisters bought it for me for Christmas o so many years ago and it soon became a favorite of mine.
Opinion: This is probably the 4th or 5th time I’ve read this book and I still declare it one of my favorites of all time. It is a sci-fi story that feels more fantasy. The story is told from three different narrators who give insights into their own groups; each viewpoint is very well thought out and compelling. The story is a bittersweet coming of age story makes you think and feel.
• Dune* by Frank Herbert 9/10
Story: Paul Atriedes and his family are directed to take control of Dune, a seemingly barren planet that holds one thing that is highly desired – the Spice. However, plots within plots and traps within traps have been laid for the, and what’s more, Paul is at the center of a prophecy that could lead to great peace or mass destruction.
First Introduction to the book: Once I began to get into sci-fi books, a friend of mine spoke to me about Dune and how awesome it was until I decided to buy it and read it for myself.
Opinion: This is perhaps the densest book I know of, meaning that the reader won’t understand half of what’s going on until he’s about half-way through. And even then there are many new terms being introduced. But plow through I say! This is because this book has one of the best created sci-fi worlds around. The whole environment is thought out to the minute details. The story itself is something of a coming of age story over time. The plot is compelling and deep.
• The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau 8/10
Story: Ember is a city lit by lights that would otherwise always be in the dark. However its lights are beginning to flicker. Time is running out for the city, but soon two young kids starting their first jobs are going to uncover a secret message showing them how to save everyone.
First Introduction to the book: I found it at a sale in VT for cheap. I thought I’d heard of it somewhere before and it wasn’t that expensive so I bought it. Later I realized that I’d seen posters for the movie of the book while I was in Spain.
Opinion: This is a well thought out story that intrigues the reader until the end. It’s about a city surrounded by complete darkness whose lights are beginning to falter and whose supplies are beginning to go short. It’s part of a 4 book series, but this is the only book of them that I’ve read because the reviews for the others didn’t look as good, but this book is worth it.
• The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins
(Twice except for Mockingjay)
o The Hunger Games 10/10
o Catching Fire 9/10
o Mockingjay 8.5/10
Story: In some future time, catastrophic war has happened which eventually led to one centralized gov’t, which wasn’t that great, so the people rebelled. Only, the rebellion failed, and now each sector has to send 2 children annually as tributes to a brutal fight to the death called the Hunger Games. Katniss would to anything to make sure that her little sister doesn’t get called into it.
First Introduction to the book: A friend of mine recommended it until one day in Barnes & Noble I was bored, so I read the whole thing. Then I read the sequel. And then I had to wait for the final book to come out, but while waiting I bought the books and spread them to my family.
Opinion: Definitely a gripping story. It’s hard to put the book down. Many interesting themes are brought up about war and survival and human nature. The main characters are complex and compelling. The series as a whole is very good, though the ending felt slightly rushed. Even so, I liked it a lot, though it was pretty sad.
Overall: 9/10
• The Ender Series* by Orson Scott Card
o Ender's Game 10/10
o Ender's Shadow 9.5/10
o Shadow of the Hegemon 10/10
o Shadow Puppets 8/10
o Shadow of the Giant 9/10
o Ender in Exile – first read 7/10
o Speaker for the Dead 10/10
o Xenocide 9.5/10
o Children of the Mind 9/10
Story: Well, there’s a lot of books here, so I’ll just give the basics for the parts. In Ender’s Game and Ender’s Shadow, Earth has been attacked by aliens twice and is preparing for a third invasion by training young geniuses to be future commanders. Ender is the best of the best, but in the parallel novel (Ender’s Shadow) we also see that Bean may be better.
In the next three books listed, Bean is at the center of the action back on earth in a power struggle between nations. Ender in Exile is a connector novel between Shadow of the Giant and Speaker for the Dead. The remaining books follow Ender far into the future where he has to try to prevent the possible xenocide of a sentient alien race.
First Introduction to the book: Many many years ago, I think my dad came across this book and its direct sequels. At that time I only read Ender’s Game and Speaker for the Dead and loved them, but found Xenocide difficult to get through. Later on I finished it and picked up the Bean series side of it.
Opinion: Ender’s Game alone is one of the best books out there. Speaker for the Dead is for more of a sci-fi audience, but is also amazing. All the books are good, but the Bean series is more like Ender’s Game, while Speaker for the Dead and its sequels are for more sci-fi readers. I must say, Ender in Exile wasn’t that strong of a read – it felt more like some short stories, only the book is written more in the style of the Bean series, and less that of the Ender part of the series, so it felt weird. Still, the series as a whole is amazing and very creatively thought out. There are a lot of cool concepts in these books.
Overall: 9/10
• Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen 8.5/10
Story: A story about the two very different sisters, personality wise, finding love. For Marianne there is the dashing Willoughby and for Elinor, there is the collected Edward, but neither love seems as simple as they would have it.
First Introduction to the book: I’m sure I’ve watched the movie with my sisters at some point in time, but I recently decided, since I enjoy good romance stories, that I really ought to read more of Jane Austin, so I borrowed a big compilation book from a friend.
Opinion: This is a charming book, no doubt. The characters are so very well fleshed out that it’s enjoyable getting to know them. And I’m a sucker for romance in books, especially when it’s well done and believable, so of course I enjoyed that part. And yet, I felt the ending was a little rushed; I wanted more at the end.
• The Piano Lesson by August Wilson 8/10
Story: Boy Willie wants to sell his family’s old piano that they inherited in order to buy land, but his sister Berniece won’t let him, even though she doesn’t play it anymore.
First Introduction to the play: I had to read it for my Theater Appreciation class in school.
Opinion: I prefer to see plays than read them any day, but this was enjoyable enough. It’s not really the sort of genre that I go for in general, so my rating reflects that. If you enjoy stories about the south and black heritage, it is a well written and meaningful story that I’m glad to have read.
• A Streetcar Named Desire* by Tennessee Williams 9/10
Story: Blanche comes to visit her sister Stella and her husband Stanley. Almost immediately she finds herself at odds with Stanley as her own past and character come to light.
First Introduction to the play: I read this first in high school I believe, but I didn’t mind reading it again for a class this year.
Opinion: Probably one of my favorite plays, probably because I remember Marlon Brando and I think he’s a great actor. The story and characters are always interesting and the ending effect is powerful.
• Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen 10/10
Story: A family of many daughters deals with many suitors. The main romance centers on Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. But who is prideful and who is prejudiced? People aren’t always the way they seem.
First Introduction to the book: I remember watching the BBC version with my sisters oh so long ago. I’d like to see it again, but anyway, I was thinking about how, since I enjoy good romantic stories, that this was a must read, and oh how glad I am that I did.
Opinion: So my synopsis for this was especially terrible, I think, but the book is amazing. It has some amazing lines, some wonderful themes on love and pride, and a wide variety of interesting and fleshed out characters. The story is believable, to me at least, and well thought out with enough twists and turns to make you hold your breath at times.
• The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley 8.5/10
Story: In a fictional world, a normal girl, a Homelander named Harry, is captured by Corlath, the King of the Hill Folk as they prepare for an invasion from the demonic Northern Tribes. Only she isn’t as normal as she once thought; she has a strange connection to an ancient lady hero named Aerin and her powerful blue sword.
First Introduction to the book: My sister recommended it to me as a wonderful fantasy novel with romance, so I borrowed it and read it. Simple.
Opinion: A very memorable story. Seeing the story from Harry’s perspective added to the suspense and tension of the story. The world was well developed, so far as I could tell, and the story was original enough. A good strong heroine.
• The Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander
o The Book of Three 9/10
o The Black Cauldron 10/10
o The Castle of Llyr 8.5/10
o Taryn Wanderer (Not read yet)
o The High King (Not read yet)
Story: Taryn is an assistant Pig-Keeper with delusions of grandeur who, when his talking pig escapes, soon finds himself in the midst of terrible conflict between the forces of evil and the remaining Kingdom. In time, throughout the series he gradually becomes a reliable and heroic figure.
First Introduction to the books: The first two books were on my bookshelf for years when I was a child, but I got it into my head that I couldn’t start reading them unless I had all of them available. And then I grew older and realized that I could use libraries and friends, so I started the series, but somehow haven’t had time / haven’t easily encountered the remaining two books.
Opinion: Taryn is a character to follow who at first makes us groan with his ineptitude and brashness, only to later make us see similar follies in ourselves and grow with him as he grows. The second book especially represents this. The series is well thought out, humorous, and engaging. I can’t wait to finish the series!
Overall: 9/10, so far
• The Iliad by Homer 10/10
Story: This is the story of the Trojan War and the wrath of Achilles and his change over time.
First Introduction to the book: Naturally I’ve heard of this book forever and thought to read it, but it was assigned in my Greek Civ. class last semester so I read it then.
Opinion: I’m very glad my teacher was there to explain the significance of what was going on in the Iliad. That may sound strange considering the rating I’ve given the book, but the very concept of the book about defying the traditional way of things and becoming a thinking individual is so powerful even today that the book makes it come alive. I appreciate Homer, Achilles, and their influence a lot more now than before. Definitely a classic.
• Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan
(twice except The Last Olympian)
o PJ The Lightning Thief 9/10
o PJ The Sea of Monsters 9/10
o PJ The Curse of the Titan 9/10
o PJ The Battle of the Labyrinth 9.5/10
o PJ The Last Olympian 9.5/10
Story: Percy Jackson thinks he’s just an ADHD kid with dyslexia, but in truth he is a demigod. The Greek gods still exist and have moved with the west, only an ancient titan is trying to revive himself in order to overthrow Olympus. Percy Jackson finds himself caught in several oracles that will determine the fate of gods.
First Introduction to the book: Occasionally my dad will buy me random books and I think to myself, “uh-oh, I’ve no idea if this is any good or not; maybe I’ll check it out and maybe I won’t. Well I didn’t read this book until well after two years had passed. I’d just come back from my mission and heard that a movie was coming out for it, so I thought, “Hey, why not check out the book.” I loved it so much that I bought the rest. But don’t see the movie; it was pretty terrible in comparison.
Opinion: These novels increase my love for Greek culture and mythology while at the same time making me laugh a lot and enjoy a set of interesting characters. Character development is slow over the series, as is the romance, but I liked it that way. The plots are pretty much joyrides that are a little hard to predict, but I enjoyed them anyway. As a series it is a very solid read.
Overall: 9.5/10
-----------------
Thanks for reading (or skimming as the case may be) Hope some of these can be on your book list for the upcoming year so we can talk about them. Some of them will probably be on my list again. Happy New Years to all in a couple of days!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Merry Christmas!
Well, I wasn't sure if I'd manage a Christmas poem or not this year, but the inspiration came today and I went with it. I haven't had time to revise it much, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Merry Christmas!
Transformation into a Wise Man
I found the eastern star just inside
the front door. It is not the lights on the Christmas tree
nor their reflection in the green and red ornaments
that rest below the hay-like branches,
but it is a different glow from the innocent smile
on my nephew’s face. I remember the story
of wonder, when angels heralded the Christ child
and I imagine my parents with hands of good will
in the middle of the night, unnoticed, forgotten
until now. If I were a wiser shepherd,
then I could be as a child again.
A spirit of kindness shines above me like a miracle.
Who will believe it? If I could follow
these gentle stirring within me, nuzzling me
onwards to a humble beginning,
I would give Him the only things I can keep:
these gold-weight legs that walk towards home
my mouth full of frankincense words,
and my eyes glistening with myrrh.
Look at the lines upon my rough hands.
Make them soft as straw where any child can sleep.
Transformation into a Wise Man
I found the eastern star just inside
the front door. It is not the lights on the Christmas tree
nor their reflection in the green and red ornaments
that rest below the hay-like branches,
but it is a different glow from the innocent smile
on my nephew’s face. I remember the story
of wonder, when angels heralded the Christ child
and I imagine my parents with hands of good will
in the middle of the night, unnoticed, forgotten
until now. If I were a wiser shepherd,
then I could be as a child again.
A spirit of kindness shines above me like a miracle.
Who will believe it? If I could follow
these gentle stirring within me, nuzzling me
onwards to a humble beginning,
I would give Him the only things I can keep:
these gold-weight legs that walk towards home
my mouth full of frankincense words,
and my eyes glistening with myrrh.
Look at the lines upon my rough hands.
Make them soft as straw where any child can sleep.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sorry, No Christmas Poems Yet
Yeah, I'm not generally into the whole "because it's Christmas I have to write Christmas poems. My talent doesn't generally lie in having a topic and then writing, but more in having an emotion, then writing. So heres two poems done that way. The first one is written in Sijos, as said in the title. I was looking up poetry the other day and saw that Sijo is a style of poetry in tercets with each line having around 14-16 syllables, generally with some break in the middle of each line. Enjoy!
(Note: Soon I'll be posting a book review, sort of, on all the books I've read this year. Stay tuned!)
Sijos from the Bedside of a Young Boy
I.
The clock with a tsk, tsk, tsk, reminds me it's time to retire.
My eyes should look away from the world a moment; my ears close,
but still I feel the wrinkles in my sheets; I know I am aging.
II.
A dream catcher rests above the window, and beyond it dead trees
that web the night sky with leafless branches. But I am not contained.
Though the blanket is warm, the stars burn the cold edge of my youth.
III.
I remember my father told me stories, lying beside me,
his gravity pulling me close. On the black ceiling I painted
the faces of my family, with ancient trees and red mountains.
IV.
Mother, what do I hear out in the hallway? Water like a faucet,
the carpet being brushed, and music like bells from the kitchen.
I recognize the patterns in your sounds, now that I listen.
V.
Silence in my sisters' rooms, so different from the nights before,
when I heard laughter like moonlight, shining in my ears,
and with my eyes, I heard the piano and cello in lullaby.
VI.
Does my brother sleep in the room next door? Lights escapes in thin lines.
Like a crack in an ocean liner or a leak in a tin roof,
so too the glow sinks in, and I wonder if my eyes will close first.
VII.
The first six times I tried to sleep, too restless to say goodbye,
I imagined four-leaf clovers, shooting stars, wishes, and prayers.
Now I let go of this dark harbor, to drift from home to home.
----------------------------------------
Ambience
My thoughts color the sounds.
Red is a crackling flame,
an idle motor waiting outside,
the soft breath of a girl asleep,
a heartbeat heard within.
Purple with its sweeping tide:
An airplane overhead,
street leaves carried by the breeze,
the highway at midnight,
the purr of a smiling cat.
Yellow, the sweet candy of company:
I remember home
with a whirring fan,
a light rain,
and footsteps in the kitchen.
As if within a prism,
I listen for the color blue:
the clock counting the days,
the whistle of wind at the window,
the restless ocean.
Rainbows are lost in the daylight white.
My desires to keep love close,
like threads in a winter jacket,
hide underneath a thick cloth:
the black words I wrap myself in.
(Note: Soon I'll be posting a book review, sort of, on all the books I've read this year. Stay tuned!)
Sijos from the Bedside of a Young Boy
I.
The clock with a tsk, tsk, tsk, reminds me it's time to retire.
My eyes should look away from the world a moment; my ears close,
but still I feel the wrinkles in my sheets; I know I am aging.
II.
A dream catcher rests above the window, and beyond it dead trees
that web the night sky with leafless branches. But I am not contained.
Though the blanket is warm, the stars burn the cold edge of my youth.
III.
I remember my father told me stories, lying beside me,
his gravity pulling me close. On the black ceiling I painted
the faces of my family, with ancient trees and red mountains.
IV.
Mother, what do I hear out in the hallway? Water like a faucet,
the carpet being brushed, and music like bells from the kitchen.
I recognize the patterns in your sounds, now that I listen.
V.
Silence in my sisters' rooms, so different from the nights before,
when I heard laughter like moonlight, shining in my ears,
and with my eyes, I heard the piano and cello in lullaby.
VI.
Does my brother sleep in the room next door? Lights escapes in thin lines.
Like a crack in an ocean liner or a leak in a tin roof,
so too the glow sinks in, and I wonder if my eyes will close first.
VII.
The first six times I tried to sleep, too restless to say goodbye,
I imagined four-leaf clovers, shooting stars, wishes, and prayers.
Now I let go of this dark harbor, to drift from home to home.
----------------------------------------
Ambience
My thoughts color the sounds.
Red is a crackling flame,
an idle motor waiting outside,
the soft breath of a girl asleep,
a heartbeat heard within.
Purple with its sweeping tide:
An airplane overhead,
street leaves carried by the breeze,
the highway at midnight,
the purr of a smiling cat.
Yellow, the sweet candy of company:
I remember home
with a whirring fan,
a light rain,
and footsteps in the kitchen.
As if within a prism,
I listen for the color blue:
the clock counting the days,
the whistle of wind at the window,
the restless ocean.
Rainbows are lost in the daylight white.
My desires to keep love close,
like threads in a winter jacket,
hide underneath a thick cloth:
the black words I wrap myself in.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Winter Transition
I wrote this poem back in high school, but it's a poem that often comes to mind when I think of the winter, so I thought I'd share it with you too.
Winter Transition
The gray and cloudy skies
bring the world to still
‘til past the windowsill
there is no motion but my eyes.
These things are different than they seem,
for wind breathes where it will
and in the air’s a chill
that keeps me from my dream.
And yet I sense the stillness grow
as the light fades sadder
and the dead leaves scatter
floating for a time before they slow.
Sky darkens and grass grows black
with shadows, while the air
moans now in despair
calling for the autumn to come back.
Trees without their leaves now little sway.
The snow begins to fall,
but I only recall
the motionless and eerie gray.
These things are different than they seem,
for knowing that nights change
and winter days are strange
the world could be in dream.
The gray and cloudy skies
hold minds in the deep
and blanket all in sleep
‘til we awake and rise.
Winter Transition
The gray and cloudy skies
bring the world to still
‘til past the windowsill
there is no motion but my eyes.
These things are different than they seem,
for wind breathes where it will
and in the air’s a chill
that keeps me from my dream.
And yet I sense the stillness grow
as the light fades sadder
and the dead leaves scatter
floating for a time before they slow.
Sky darkens and grass grows black
with shadows, while the air
moans now in despair
calling for the autumn to come back.
Trees without their leaves now little sway.
The snow begins to fall,
but I only recall
the motionless and eerie gray.
These things are different than they seem,
for knowing that nights change
and winter days are strange
the world could be in dream.
The gray and cloudy skies
hold minds in the deep
and blanket all in sleep
‘til we awake and rise.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Hello Winter!
Winter is here! Today it even snowed! But before that happened, I wrote this poem about coldness, loneliness, and the like. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what it makes you think of and how or where I could make it better.
Heaven Upheld
Atlas shivers where he stands;
naked he holds the naked sky
with no stroke to sooth his blistered hands.
And who is it that holds the world up high
above the black and empty well,
the void of unreachable stars?
If these two stand alone, who can tell
how long they can bear? How far
would we fall at their mistake?
The earth shakes,
and the maples let their leaves fall.
They can’t hold on; their grip is thin:
tender like a parent’s call,
and lazy as the sound of a violin,
diminuendo. The steady drift down
into winter days, heavy and slow,
shuts windows and doors all over town.
The wanderers weigh the air and go
home in search of rest.
I feel it in my chest;
cold in the night beneath my sheets,
a burden also presses my heart.
My mind awakens and skips a beat
in confusion. When did I start
to listen to the stillness outside,
or reach into the dark air above?
I hold on to what? Neither space nor pride,
nor sky, nor worlds, nor love.
Yet these uphold my waking hours.
Though we build our solitary towers
on shaky ground, it sways in time
with the restless motions of solitude.
Listen! There are gods confined,
whispering below us, while we brood
above them like a thick mist; they remain
patient as statues. We cannot turn away
from this seclusion under spitting rain.
Come inside with me! We’ll stay
beneath this pillared roof, warm and dry,
to build a fire in your hands, a hearth in mine.
Heaven Upheld
Atlas shivers where he stands;
naked he holds the naked sky
with no stroke to sooth his blistered hands.
And who is it that holds the world up high
above the black and empty well,
the void of unreachable stars?
If these two stand alone, who can tell
how long they can bear? How far
would we fall at their mistake?
The earth shakes,
and the maples let their leaves fall.
They can’t hold on; their grip is thin:
tender like a parent’s call,
and lazy as the sound of a violin,
diminuendo. The steady drift down
into winter days, heavy and slow,
shuts windows and doors all over town.
The wanderers weigh the air and go
home in search of rest.
I feel it in my chest;
cold in the night beneath my sheets,
a burden also presses my heart.
My mind awakens and skips a beat
in confusion. When did I start
to listen to the stillness outside,
or reach into the dark air above?
I hold on to what? Neither space nor pride,
nor sky, nor worlds, nor love.
Yet these uphold my waking hours.
Though we build our solitary towers
on shaky ground, it sways in time
with the restless motions of solitude.
Listen! There are gods confined,
whispering below us, while we brood
above them like a thick mist; they remain
patient as statues. We cannot turn away
from this seclusion under spitting rain.
Come inside with me! We’ll stay
beneath this pillared roof, warm and dry,
to build a fire in your hands, a hearth in mine.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving!
Here's three Thanksgiving poems. I don't think they're normal Thanksgiving poems, just poems with that as the setting and as part of the theme. They're poems that I wrote a while ago, but all poems that I really like and I hope you like them too! Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
On Thanksgiving
November in Vermont is dead.
The grass is as brown as the bare tree branches
and the garden is filled with empty dirt patches.
I can see miles of this, driving to the nearest town.
Woodstock looks alive only because there are families gathering,
preparing to give of their time,
and because the sun sometimes shines.
When the sky is overcast and menacing
even Woodstock looks caught in a fatal colorless trap
Is this true winter,
the time when our mother has just died and we are dumbstruck,
waiting for someone to cover her with a white sheet?
Looking around, it’s like I’ve given her nothing after all.
I’ve heard that caterpillars are killing the trees
and that the autumn leaves look sick
when compared to their younger years,
yet there remains some veins
through which the earth’s blood runs,
like water through a leaking pipe:
the high-bush cranberries and the wine-colored crab apples.
Both are bitter and I wish it would snow.
------------------------------------------
Harvesting
One day before thanksgiving,
a friend and I had a petty argument over homonyms.
“The fields are ALL READY to harvest,” she corrected my poetry,
“Two words, not one.”
Yet that was incorrect as well.
What field takes up the sickle to reap itself?
And the next day was the last meeting before break.
I told myself, “Don’t argue.”
Even then my words wanted to burst out
like black birds lifting off an open plain.
But as I opened my mouth,
she stopped me,
thanked me for all that we had learned together
and wished me luck and safety in my travels.
How wise to part as friends.
How right to be grateful and forget the mistakes.
I will accept both sides as true.
We are the tree, the fruit, and the picker;
the scattered seeds and the sower;
the white rising field.
To give, we must gather ourselves.
--------------------------------------------------
High-Bush Cranberries
On the mountains of dark green fading into brown
a northern wind blows beneath the twilight of fall and winter.
The birds under the light of a silver sky and pearl white sun
call and chirp as they rest their cool small wings,
perching on a plant, the High-Bush Cranberry,
whose crimson fruit mimics a rose in bloom,
whose branches look dead, ready to be burned on the evening pyre.
These birds, I surmise, must enjoy the bitter and tart taste
that I spit out after moving one morsel to my mouth.
Or perhaps they accept the bitters as the only life left to cherish,
as all that remains of the roses are thorns
and the occasional bundle of deep pink petals,
ready to fall with the final semblance of life,
to drift like a rowboat lost at sea, rocking side to side
like a cradled child, to lie on the cold, jade grass.
Before now, I had not realized all the things clinging to life
and giving thanks to the crisp clean air of morning:
the ancient apple tree down the hill, whose yellow and orange remnants
Hang like ornaments on an abandoned Christmas tree.
But it was not granted eternity, that strange blessing or curse cast on pines.
Instead it is like the tiny crab apples who, too, resist the change;
their colors reminisce of fall, while bare limbs reach into a harsh winter.
In a fortnight, I am sure, these things will be not be gone,
but be given the gift of life in a time of snowstorms waiting to happen.
On Thanksgiving
November in Vermont is dead.
The grass is as brown as the bare tree branches
and the garden is filled with empty dirt patches.
I can see miles of this, driving to the nearest town.
Woodstock looks alive only because there are families gathering,
preparing to give of their time,
and because the sun sometimes shines.
When the sky is overcast and menacing
even Woodstock looks caught in a fatal colorless trap
Is this true winter,
the time when our mother has just died and we are dumbstruck,
waiting for someone to cover her with a white sheet?
Looking around, it’s like I’ve given her nothing after all.
I’ve heard that caterpillars are killing the trees
and that the autumn leaves look sick
when compared to their younger years,
yet there remains some veins
through which the earth’s blood runs,
like water through a leaking pipe:
the high-bush cranberries and the wine-colored crab apples.
Both are bitter and I wish it would snow.
------------------------------------------
Harvesting
One day before thanksgiving,
a friend and I had a petty argument over homonyms.
“The fields are ALL READY to harvest,” she corrected my poetry,
“Two words, not one.”
Yet that was incorrect as well.
What field takes up the sickle to reap itself?
And the next day was the last meeting before break.
I told myself, “Don’t argue.”
Even then my words wanted to burst out
like black birds lifting off an open plain.
But as I opened my mouth,
she stopped me,
thanked me for all that we had learned together
and wished me luck and safety in my travels.
How wise to part as friends.
How right to be grateful and forget the mistakes.
I will accept both sides as true.
We are the tree, the fruit, and the picker;
the scattered seeds and the sower;
the white rising field.
To give, we must gather ourselves.
--------------------------------------------------
High-Bush Cranberries
On the mountains of dark green fading into brown
a northern wind blows beneath the twilight of fall and winter.
The birds under the light of a silver sky and pearl white sun
call and chirp as they rest their cool small wings,
perching on a plant, the High-Bush Cranberry,
whose crimson fruit mimics a rose in bloom,
whose branches look dead, ready to be burned on the evening pyre.
These birds, I surmise, must enjoy the bitter and tart taste
that I spit out after moving one morsel to my mouth.
Or perhaps they accept the bitters as the only life left to cherish,
as all that remains of the roses are thorns
and the occasional bundle of deep pink petals,
ready to fall with the final semblance of life,
to drift like a rowboat lost at sea, rocking side to side
like a cradled child, to lie on the cold, jade grass.
Before now, I had not realized all the things clinging to life
and giving thanks to the crisp clean air of morning:
the ancient apple tree down the hill, whose yellow and orange remnants
Hang like ornaments on an abandoned Christmas tree.
But it was not granted eternity, that strange blessing or curse cast on pines.
Instead it is like the tiny crab apples who, too, resist the change;
their colors reminisce of fall, while bare limbs reach into a harsh winter.
In a fortnight, I am sure, these things will be not be gone,
but be given the gift of life in a time of snowstorms waiting to happen.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Fall Poems
Well, I've written some more seasonal poems. The first two are new. Without purposely setting out for it, I've been playing with enjambment recently, where the line breaks happen in unexpected places that create new meanings when read on the page.
The Angel Statue
A crowd is a lonely place to linger
in the corner, expecting conversation.
That’s why I slip out the front door
unnoticed, to walk down the street,
to meet a friend between the moon
and the fleeting car lights.
Here in the open I am heard
and I hear: the twilight raking of leaves,
the child whistling out the window
and the truck backing out of the driveway.
If I too could escape, perhaps someone
would notice the silence I left.
Piles of rustling leaves line the road,
that and I kick, and my shadow
kicks with me at the angel statue
with stone wings and cold hands,
away from where the lamps give color
to dying trees and mailboxes.
But there are no letters waiting; no angels
wait by this egocentric door, only empty
cars, like discarded shells. My shadow
catches my breath, and we withdraw
before I take in the lights left on,
before my feathered outline falls silent.
---------------------------------
Not sure of my own feelings on this one. I both like and it and I wonder if it's confusing, which I don't like. And it might be slightly confusing because I'm unsure also of my own feelings towards the narrator: I sympathize with him/her, and yet I wonder if it might be partially his/her fault. I think the poem is leaning towards the latter.
---------------------------------
The Long Fall
When wind shakes the sunset
trees, leaves cast off into the ash
sky, like south-flying birds.
The leaves are as crows
against the clouds, but soon spiral
down into gold, silver, and bronze,
an unstill rain of red and brown,
like a soldier, falling for the last
time. I paw at each chance flake
to catch what’s left
of this long season.
------------------------------
I enjoyed writing this one. I did the first stanza in my head, thinking I might make it into a haiku, but decided against it. This poem, I believe, sets a mood, more than it does anything else.
-------------------------------
Zen Garden
I do not know much about rock gardens
or the care spent raking tiny cream-colored stones.
I have stood before the untouchable edge and felt peace.
I have imagined it a container of wisdom
from which I could drink, but never enter in.
Being born with good ears, I wouldn’t call it silent.
The breeze is singing through the stooping bonsais,
and as I listen, two scarlet leaves wander into the garden,
led by the wind to meet their mother’s embrace,
while elsewhere wooden boards creak beneath footsteps.
Has the Zen lifted because of this Autumn drift?
I believe that perception is required to answer,
for after all this, when a Spangled Butterfly rests on a tall rock
and spreads his orange wings, like a book being opened,
would I say that “less is more?”
------------------------------------
I wrote this poem several years back. I can't remember now if I started it at my Japanese Summer Camp, or after visited the most famous Zen Garden in Japan (My MacBook came with this Zen Garden as a default wallpaper). Either way, the imagined scene and the final question still intrigue me.
------------------------------------
The Weeping Kind
Sitting on a park bench and throwing bread to mallards,
I overhear a child ask his mother
what would happen if he jumped from the top of the tree.
The response is immediate.
She says he’ll die.
This tree is the weeping kind;
its branches form such an innocent slide of leaves to the ground
that a child might believe he would never fall through.
But those who cry have already fallen.
Something is lost in the transition.
Innocence withers like leaves at the end of autumn
and the feelings of safety from an inner home die with it.
So many of us are crying in hidden ways.
The trees are shedding leaves in the aching wind.
The strains of the violinist come from beside the pond
over which these trees weep.
The walkers stop to listen, connect,
and close their eyes for a moment.
We are escapists, always moving away from pain.
I lose myself in the wind skimming water
and temporarily forget my responsibilities
and the things I can’t control.
We don’t want the memories, dreams, or happiness to leave us
or the questions and answers to fade.
So the child asks his mother again
what would happen if he jumped from the tree to the pond.
She said he’d still die.
It seems we can’t escape it.
-----------------------------
This poem is old, but I still think it needs some revision. That being said, I like the images and the overall shock feel of the poem.
Well, hope you enjoyed these poems. I'll post some Thanksgiving-specific poems on Thursday.
The Angel Statue
A crowd is a lonely place to linger
in the corner, expecting conversation.
That’s why I slip out the front door
unnoticed, to walk down the street,
to meet a friend between the moon
and the fleeting car lights.
Here in the open I am heard
and I hear: the twilight raking of leaves,
the child whistling out the window
and the truck backing out of the driveway.
If I too could escape, perhaps someone
would notice the silence I left.
Piles of rustling leaves line the road,
that and I kick, and my shadow
kicks with me at the angel statue
with stone wings and cold hands,
away from where the lamps give color
to dying trees and mailboxes.
But there are no letters waiting; no angels
wait by this egocentric door, only empty
cars, like discarded shells. My shadow
catches my breath, and we withdraw
before I take in the lights left on,
before my feathered outline falls silent.
---------------------------------
Not sure of my own feelings on this one. I both like and it and I wonder if it's confusing, which I don't like. And it might be slightly confusing because I'm unsure also of my own feelings towards the narrator: I sympathize with him/her, and yet I wonder if it might be partially his/her fault. I think the poem is leaning towards the latter.
---------------------------------
The Long Fall
When wind shakes the sunset
trees, leaves cast off into the ash
sky, like south-flying birds.
The leaves are as crows
against the clouds, but soon spiral
down into gold, silver, and bronze,
an unstill rain of red and brown,
like a soldier, falling for the last
time. I paw at each chance flake
to catch what’s left
of this long season.
------------------------------
I enjoyed writing this one. I did the first stanza in my head, thinking I might make it into a haiku, but decided against it. This poem, I believe, sets a mood, more than it does anything else.
-------------------------------
Zen Garden
I do not know much about rock gardens
or the care spent raking tiny cream-colored stones.
I have stood before the untouchable edge and felt peace.
I have imagined it a container of wisdom
from which I could drink, but never enter in.
Being born with good ears, I wouldn’t call it silent.
The breeze is singing through the stooping bonsais,
and as I listen, two scarlet leaves wander into the garden,
led by the wind to meet their mother’s embrace,
while elsewhere wooden boards creak beneath footsteps.
Has the Zen lifted because of this Autumn drift?
I believe that perception is required to answer,
for after all this, when a Spangled Butterfly rests on a tall rock
and spreads his orange wings, like a book being opened,
would I say that “less is more?”
------------------------------------
I wrote this poem several years back. I can't remember now if I started it at my Japanese Summer Camp, or after visited the most famous Zen Garden in Japan (My MacBook came with this Zen Garden as a default wallpaper). Either way, the imagined scene and the final question still intrigue me.
------------------------------------
The Weeping Kind
Sitting on a park bench and throwing bread to mallards,
I overhear a child ask his mother
what would happen if he jumped from the top of the tree.
The response is immediate.
She says he’ll die.
This tree is the weeping kind;
its branches form such an innocent slide of leaves to the ground
that a child might believe he would never fall through.
But those who cry have already fallen.
Something is lost in the transition.
Innocence withers like leaves at the end of autumn
and the feelings of safety from an inner home die with it.
So many of us are crying in hidden ways.
The trees are shedding leaves in the aching wind.
The strains of the violinist come from beside the pond
over which these trees weep.
The walkers stop to listen, connect,
and close their eyes for a moment.
We are escapists, always moving away from pain.
I lose myself in the wind skimming water
and temporarily forget my responsibilities
and the things I can’t control.
We don’t want the memories, dreams, or happiness to leave us
or the questions and answers to fade.
So the child asks his mother again
what would happen if he jumped from the tree to the pond.
She said he’d still die.
It seems we can’t escape it.
-----------------------------
This poem is old, but I still think it needs some revision. That being said, I like the images and the overall shock feel of the poem.
Well, hope you enjoyed these poems. I'll post some Thanksgiving-specific poems on Thursday.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee
So this morning I was talking to a friend, telling her that I was just going to sit down and relax for a while and she recommended I sit down at Tate Street Coffee, a coffee shop basically on campus. So I did. And I wrote a poem because that's what poets do at coffee shops, right?
Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee
She said it’s something a poet should do,
sit by the window and view the couple
smoking on the bench grin against
the clouded sky, a canvas for the fall
colors. So I let the hot chocolate go
cold, and I neglect the muffin wrapped in
plastic. The man behind the register smiles
at long-haired blond who steps up to order
a warm latte and a “Have a nice day,”
that comes with the deal, but feels
more satisfying than warm hands around
a clay cup. I notice the tentative jazz
music. I watch the man in the corner,
pick crumbs off his red shirt and smear
ink on paper, no different from me
at the window, where outside the bench
shifted first to a red-mittened girl
pondering books, then to nothing,
an escaped emptiness, leaking through
the ever opening door.
----------------------------------
In truth, I think I was the one who told her that poets should write poetry at a coffee shop, but that isn't nearly as interesting. Remember, poetry is a form of fiction, nothing more, nothing less. But I did drink hot chocolate (though it didn't go cold) and have a (blueberry) muffin. And there was a couple and a red-mittened girl. But they weren't necessarily doing everything I described, 'cause it's a poem and I can write what I feel like writing. This is definitely a rough draft of this poem, but I like it, so I hope you do too. I feel like it creates an interesting atmosphere, which is something I like to do with my poetry. Let me know what I can do to make it better!
Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee
She said it’s something a poet should do,
sit by the window and view the couple
smoking on the bench grin against
the clouded sky, a canvas for the fall
colors. So I let the hot chocolate go
cold, and I neglect the muffin wrapped in
plastic. The man behind the register smiles
at long-haired blond who steps up to order
a warm latte and a “Have a nice day,”
that comes with the deal, but feels
more satisfying than warm hands around
a clay cup. I notice the tentative jazz
music. I watch the man in the corner,
pick crumbs off his red shirt and smear
ink on paper, no different from me
at the window, where outside the bench
shifted first to a red-mittened girl
pondering books, then to nothing,
an escaped emptiness, leaking through
the ever opening door.
----------------------------------
In truth, I think I was the one who told her that poets should write poetry at a coffee shop, but that isn't nearly as interesting. Remember, poetry is a form of fiction, nothing more, nothing less. But I did drink hot chocolate (though it didn't go cold) and have a (blueberry) muffin. And there was a couple and a red-mittened girl. But they weren't necessarily doing everything I described, 'cause it's a poem and I can write what I feel like writing. This is definitely a rough draft of this poem, but I like it, so I hope you do too. I feel like it creates an interesting atmosphere, which is something I like to do with my poetry. Let me know what I can do to make it better!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
2-Minute Poem
So the other day, reading the one forum that I look at once in a blue moon, one topic basically said - write a poem in two minutes and post it. Not that we'll ever know, but it's nice to be honest. Go!
So I was bored and decided to do it and came up with this untitled poem:
The day fades orange:
red leaves in the sky
descending to the horizon.
The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping arms around me.
She told me winter was white:
the morning sky
bare of clouds and branches.
------------------------
Then, later, I wrote up the poem and started working on it and came up with the following:
------------------------
When people leave for the holidays
The chiming clock tower
finds me in a bench for one.
Day fades orange:
autumn leaves in the sky
drift down the horizon.
The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping around me.
She once said winter was white:
snow and twinkling lights
revolving like midnight stars.
Even so, the dawn sky resounds
bare of clouds and branches.
---------------------------
So please tell me, did I make it worse? Better? Did I change some things that should't have been changed? Is it any good? What could be better still? Please let me know what you think. Thanks and enjoy!
So I was bored and decided to do it and came up with this untitled poem:
The day fades orange:
red leaves in the sky
descending to the horizon.
The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping arms around me.
She told me winter was white:
the morning sky
bare of clouds and branches.
------------------------
Then, later, I wrote up the poem and started working on it and came up with the following:
------------------------
When people leave for the holidays
The chiming clock tower
finds me in a bench for one.
Day fades orange:
autumn leaves in the sky
drift down the horizon.
The air's embrace is cold:
an absent friend
wrapping around me.
She once said winter was white:
snow and twinkling lights
revolving like midnight stars.
Even so, the dawn sky resounds
bare of clouds and branches.
---------------------------
So please tell me, did I make it worse? Better? Did I change some things that should't have been changed? Is it any good? What could be better still? Please let me know what you think. Thanks and enjoy!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Loneliness Poems
Sometimes, as Wordsworth once said, there is a bliss to solitude. But often not. Sometimes when I'm tired I begin to feel a little lonely and I write poetry about it. Not that I'm actually lonely, I don't think, but being tired can play its tricks on you. So here's a long list of poems that I've written, not tonight but a while ago, about that topic. Some I've posted previously, and others not. Interesting how often the topic has come up in my poetic life, and these aren't even all of them. I'd say it's one of the larger themes in my poems - either loneliness or trying to deal with it, or finding comfort from it, such as the last poem here. Anyway, enjoy as you will.
------------------------------
Hidden WIndows
Are you, too, blessed with open eyes
that you see the patterns in my movements,
the quilt of my days? Are you so wise
that you watch, but never speak the events?
My eyes are windows, thick and tucked inside.
Why do I find you in the crowd where you aren’t lost?
The jumble pushes us together and apart,
yet you trace a path in the shape of a broken heart.
Did you notice all these lines you crossed?
It’s lonely within, stuck amid the moments I hide.
Are you, too, cursed with watchful eyes
that see time and again how others take no note:
the giving hands, the walking feet, all disguised
by a serious face and silence, that ragged coat?
I’m always learning that no one cares to see.
The wind doesn’t stop for a leafless tree.
Why do I veil meaning in a string of words?
No one notices even that which is heard.
-----------------------------
Trusting in Compassion
You know her:
she who loves everyone,
but still sits down with you,
to listen to your good and bad days:
the time when you made 1st place,
when you found a beautiful site,
when you someone loved you,
and also the car accidents,
the arguments that left you weak,
the stress of shouting.
But she knows you;
she talks with you about anything,
listening, mainly, to the tender mercies:
the small smiles and the simple songs.
To her you open up your hopes and fears too,
trusting in her compassion.
She tells you to dream big:
to catch the moon in your palm,
like it’s the hand of a new friend.
And she assures you that you can do it,
that success is yours, if you will take it.
But who really knows her?
When the time comes, you leave her,
for other friends who don’t care as much,
because you know she understands.
You are sure she doesn’t mind.
And she doesn’t mind,
but alone in her room, she thinks aloud;
she writes with ink on paper,
and bangs on the pillow,
hoping she can bury the silence
and re-write her heart.
-----------------------------
Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the passing minutes,
I am suddenly aware in the silence that drowns me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes a shout.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
the sounds around them which like waves
wash incessantly upon their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wake.
They wreck ships, light fires, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them or plans a rescue.
What is lost in the confusion of the waves?
These people and I, we are lost in a forgotten sea,
falling apart and sinking deeper into the cold water.
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
-----------------------------
From the Spirit of this Japanese Lake
The high-pitched flute that is casually played
in and out of tune, reminds me of the desert,
like the wind on the water is sweeping sand…
is merely a mirage.
How lonely, the rustling of leaves on the center islands,
the black birds and dead flowers fluttering away
(this cannot only be the wind’s fault),
the vast emptiness.
The walkers do not swim here on a warm day,
as if respect is the same as isolation.
In the shrine-like pier a young boy kneels to ask
if I am truly the master of the lake?
Or is it the old man fishing where there are no fish,
the flute, searching for a watery snake;
the gray bridges, or the bums who come to sleep
in a stretch of shaded paths?
There is life here, but we are not connected;
and how far could I reach anyway, lying only here,
rocked by an inconsistent breeze, unstill like a child,
unseen in an orange corner.
-------------------------
Late Nights
It seems a habit now to go to sleep at this time
when my eyes are heavy like stones in my pockets
reminders that I carry a burden beyond myself.
I promise myself that if my eyes ever open again
I will rest early tomorrow.
But it seems a habit to sleep at this time
when the moon has disappeared behind the high clouds
and the yard outside is lightless.
It appears so lifeless, but then I hear the owl coo
and far away, the coyote howls as if the moon was never lost.
---------------------------
Minnesota
I have been a stranger in Minnesota.
The airport and a camp are all I really know.
In the tired airport,
early and alone,
I walked up and down the escalators,
retracing my steps ten times over.
No one knew me
and I recognized none.
We were packed into buses.
The Californian beside me talked without stop
and the scenery consisted of aureate fields and silver highways
that I have forgotten and reimagined.
The camp was little more than a forest by the lake
whose forest was thin,
whose lake was cold and reflective at the end of summer.
And I was still a stranger
walking up and down hills
tracing the steps of ghosts before me.
------------------------------
The Labyrinth
The sound of water
sluices through the walls of the garden,
the leafy hollows of green.
I am meant to be here,
lost in the shade of an unknown ivory tree
whose branches are my fingers pawing at the blue.
I am a part of this.
If I leave the central fountain will be forgotten,
but there will always be that longing,
a desire for the solitude that stands by you.
I have been lonely in a crowd of friends.
That is why I return
and search for a different companion.
I can join these leaves
where they form the looseness of my hair
and the curve of my face.
They hold me close
until nothing is hidden to them.
I can watch from in there.
And when I reappear,
stepping again onto the red stone trail,
new paths unfold that lead me on,
closer to the one who waits at journey’s end.
He is neither child nor adult,
only the reality of being,
a presence,
an inner self who understands.
He stretches dormant below the magnolia blossoms,
beside the foxgloves that hold his soft fingers;
the emerald grass bends beneath him,
extending out like pleated wings.
He’ll know innately where he is when I wake him;
he has flown above this spiraling world.
Please, I will whisper, carry me home.
------------------------------
Hidden WIndows
Are you, too, blessed with open eyes
that you see the patterns in my movements,
the quilt of my days? Are you so wise
that you watch, but never speak the events?
My eyes are windows, thick and tucked inside.
Why do I find you in the crowd where you aren’t lost?
The jumble pushes us together and apart,
yet you trace a path in the shape of a broken heart.
Did you notice all these lines you crossed?
It’s lonely within, stuck amid the moments I hide.
Are you, too, cursed with watchful eyes
that see time and again how others take no note:
the giving hands, the walking feet, all disguised
by a serious face and silence, that ragged coat?
I’m always learning that no one cares to see.
The wind doesn’t stop for a leafless tree.
Why do I veil meaning in a string of words?
No one notices even that which is heard.
-----------------------------
Trusting in Compassion
You know her:
she who loves everyone,
but still sits down with you,
to listen to your good and bad days:
the time when you made 1st place,
when you found a beautiful site,
when you someone loved you,
and also the car accidents,
the arguments that left you weak,
the stress of shouting.
But she knows you;
she talks with you about anything,
listening, mainly, to the tender mercies:
the small smiles and the simple songs.
To her you open up your hopes and fears too,
trusting in her compassion.
She tells you to dream big:
to catch the moon in your palm,
like it’s the hand of a new friend.
And she assures you that you can do it,
that success is yours, if you will take it.
But who really knows her?
When the time comes, you leave her,
for other friends who don’t care as much,
because you know she understands.
You are sure she doesn’t mind.
And she doesn’t mind,
but alone in her room, she thinks aloud;
she writes with ink on paper,
and bangs on the pillow,
hoping she can bury the silence
and re-write her heart.
-----------------------------
Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the passing minutes,
I am suddenly aware in the silence that drowns me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes a shout.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
the sounds around them which like waves
wash incessantly upon their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wake.
They wreck ships, light fires, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them or plans a rescue.
What is lost in the confusion of the waves?
These people and I, we are lost in a forgotten sea,
falling apart and sinking deeper into the cold water.
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
-----------------------------
From the Spirit of this Japanese Lake
The high-pitched flute that is casually played
in and out of tune, reminds me of the desert,
like the wind on the water is sweeping sand…
is merely a mirage.
How lonely, the rustling of leaves on the center islands,
the black birds and dead flowers fluttering away
(this cannot only be the wind’s fault),
the vast emptiness.
The walkers do not swim here on a warm day,
as if respect is the same as isolation.
In the shrine-like pier a young boy kneels to ask
if I am truly the master of the lake?
Or is it the old man fishing where there are no fish,
the flute, searching for a watery snake;
the gray bridges, or the bums who come to sleep
in a stretch of shaded paths?
There is life here, but we are not connected;
and how far could I reach anyway, lying only here,
rocked by an inconsistent breeze, unstill like a child,
unseen in an orange corner.
-------------------------
Late Nights
It seems a habit now to go to sleep at this time
when my eyes are heavy like stones in my pockets
reminders that I carry a burden beyond myself.
I promise myself that if my eyes ever open again
I will rest early tomorrow.
But it seems a habit to sleep at this time
when the moon has disappeared behind the high clouds
and the yard outside is lightless.
It appears so lifeless, but then I hear the owl coo
and far away, the coyote howls as if the moon was never lost.
---------------------------
Minnesota
I have been a stranger in Minnesota.
The airport and a camp are all I really know.
In the tired airport,
early and alone,
I walked up and down the escalators,
retracing my steps ten times over.
No one knew me
and I recognized none.
We were packed into buses.
The Californian beside me talked without stop
and the scenery consisted of aureate fields and silver highways
that I have forgotten and reimagined.
The camp was little more than a forest by the lake
whose forest was thin,
whose lake was cold and reflective at the end of summer.
And I was still a stranger
walking up and down hills
tracing the steps of ghosts before me.
------------------------------
The Labyrinth
The sound of water
sluices through the walls of the garden,
the leafy hollows of green.
I am meant to be here,
lost in the shade of an unknown ivory tree
whose branches are my fingers pawing at the blue.
I am a part of this.
If I leave the central fountain will be forgotten,
but there will always be that longing,
a desire for the solitude that stands by you.
I have been lonely in a crowd of friends.
That is why I return
and search for a different companion.
I can join these leaves
where they form the looseness of my hair
and the curve of my face.
They hold me close
until nothing is hidden to them.
I can watch from in there.
And when I reappear,
stepping again onto the red stone trail,
new paths unfold that lead me on,
closer to the one who waits at journey’s end.
He is neither child nor adult,
only the reality of being,
a presence,
an inner self who understands.
He stretches dormant below the magnolia blossoms,
beside the foxgloves that hold his soft fingers;
the emerald grass bends beneath him,
extending out like pleated wings.
He’ll know innately where he is when I wake him;
he has flown above this spiraling world.
Please, I will whisper, carry me home.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Spinning Wheels
Here are two poems, the first one new, the second one old. Both have spinning wheels, but both have a different feel to them, for me at least. Without further ado:
What spins in place
A light spitting rain,
beneath the dusty city lights,
begins as I begin home.
It smells of clay,
a potters wheel spinning.
My wheels also spun once
stuck in the ditch
off the road, where
I couldn’t see
the curve in the road.
The mud kept me down
and I’ve been told that flying
is kept for others.
Couldn’t just ditch the car
or walk home alone.
That was up north, but down
here a different wheel spins
the dust behind my eyes.
As I move, all this moisture -
will it make mud or clay?
------------------------
The First Vineyard
A pinwheel spins at the end of the driveway
and, across the road, a vineyard runs
uphill and out of sight
before the final row.
Yet neither is moving away.
Endlessness waits in a line of emerald leaves
and a crawling space beneath,
hidden by the upward slope.
The pinwheel creaks at every moving car,
but cannot be heard in passing.
I am listening, fool though I am,
sitting on the edge of the road,
wishing I could enter the deserted vineyard:
an open land, a heart I have not touched.
I long to be welcomed beyond the fence:
to join and not steal,
to gather and not partake,
to wander and never be lost.
What spins in place
A light spitting rain,
beneath the dusty city lights,
begins as I begin home.
It smells of clay,
a potters wheel spinning.
My wheels also spun once
stuck in the ditch
off the road, where
I couldn’t see
the curve in the road.
The mud kept me down
and I’ve been told that flying
is kept for others.
Couldn’t just ditch the car
or walk home alone.
That was up north, but down
here a different wheel spins
the dust behind my eyes.
As I move, all this moisture -
will it make mud or clay?
------------------------
The First Vineyard
A pinwheel spins at the end of the driveway
and, across the road, a vineyard runs
uphill and out of sight
before the final row.
Yet neither is moving away.
Endlessness waits in a line of emerald leaves
and a crawling space beneath,
hidden by the upward slope.
The pinwheel creaks at every moving car,
but cannot be heard in passing.
I am listening, fool though I am,
sitting on the edge of the road,
wishing I could enter the deserted vineyard:
an open land, a heart I have not touched.
I long to be welcomed beyond the fence:
to join and not steal,
to gather and not partake,
to wander and never be lost.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Beautiful Sleep and I am poems
Every now and again I like to post old poems of mine. These poems are a part of me and I reflect on them again and again because to me they capture bits of me. The following three poems are no different.
A Beautiful Sleep
The words came late one night
when all dreams come
to close old doors,
“Don’t you know what life is?”
I thought it sounded like poetry:
a line that never ends,
a hallway of opening doors
where we must enter.
We turn strange handles
because a future is waiting.
A promise of life once given
is never taken away.
All doors are passageways:
the black door, like an eyelid.
There is an awakening.
--------------------------
I love this poem and remember it often because the first stanza did happen. So I'm a pensive guy, but random questions like that do come to me every now and again. And then the whole concept of this life almost like a beautiful sleep from which one day we will wake is an alluring and powerful image to me. I love it.
--------------------------
I am
I am the blank slate and pad of paper
pages fluttering with the chance breeze;
I am the smooth stone thrown into the river
that skips before it falls away;
I am the large crowd quiet in an auditorium;
I am the large family talking together at breakfast;
and the group of friends, laughing by the mall.
I am the first to say I’m shy,
I am the second to arrive early,
I am the third option,
and the fourth in line.
I am even the fifth of September.
I’m the strange boy in the classroom;
and I’m the girl who sits beside him.
I’m the woman walking at dusk
and the man
on the moon
in the reflection
in the dark
on the road
in control
but on the fritz
and on the edge
and even I
am ready to say
who am I?
-----------------------------
This poem and the next have a lot of "I am" statements. In both these poems, this blog can't get the spacing as I would have it, but oh well. If I remember correctly both came from exercises we did in a poetry class and I think both turned out well. Both are meaningful to me, at least. I especially like the flow of the middle stanza and the first two lines of the third. I hope y'all enjoy them too.
-----------------------------
From the Year of Dragons
I am from a land that I never knew
upon whose mountains, I am told, I first crawled.
I am from the old and scratched blue station wagon
bought the year I was born
the year of dragons.
I am from the large warm hands of my sisters
and my older brother’s prayers.
I am from the cold bathwater, dripping and wet.
I am from the absences of my father and his age
and the ages that my siblings had long before I was born.
I am from a playground in Japan
and the boat which took me there
from the other side of the world.
I am.
I say I am
from the death of my grandfather
who died washing dishes
which may not be surprising
to some.
To some, I am from the airport in Atlanta
and the waiting room there where I slept
elevated by two chairs
while snow fell from the blackened sky.
How strange to believe, to realize, that I am from that snow
again dripping and wet with one eye throbbing
with leafless branches above webbing the heavens
as the new year’s bonfire burned to ashes
and I am from the snowball that hit my eye
and knocked me into the cold, cold snowflakes
where I lay, waiting for midnight.
-------------------------------------
I enjoy this poem because it holds so many memories for me, and memories that I've been told. I also like how the last several images lead into each other. Who am I? Read the poems. :)
A Beautiful Sleep
The words came late one night
when all dreams come
to close old doors,
“Don’t you know what life is?”
I thought it sounded like poetry:
a line that never ends,
a hallway of opening doors
where we must enter.
We turn strange handles
because a future is waiting.
A promise of life once given
is never taken away.
All doors are passageways:
the black door, like an eyelid.
There is an awakening.
--------------------------
I love this poem and remember it often because the first stanza did happen. So I'm a pensive guy, but random questions like that do come to me every now and again. And then the whole concept of this life almost like a beautiful sleep from which one day we will wake is an alluring and powerful image to me. I love it.
--------------------------
I am
I am the blank slate and pad of paper
pages fluttering with the chance breeze;
I am the smooth stone thrown into the river
that skips before it falls away;
I am the large crowd quiet in an auditorium;
I am the large family talking together at breakfast;
and the group of friends, laughing by the mall.
I am the first to say I’m shy,
I am the second to arrive early,
I am the third option,
and the fourth in line.
I am even the fifth of September.
I’m the strange boy in the classroom;
and I’m the girl who sits beside him.
I’m the woman walking at dusk
and the man
on the moon
in the reflection
in the dark
on the road
in control
but on the fritz
and on the edge
and even I
am ready to say
who am I?
-----------------------------
This poem and the next have a lot of "I am" statements. In both these poems, this blog can't get the spacing as I would have it, but oh well. If I remember correctly both came from exercises we did in a poetry class and I think both turned out well. Both are meaningful to me, at least. I especially like the flow of the middle stanza and the first two lines of the third. I hope y'all enjoy them too.
-----------------------------
From the Year of Dragons
I am from a land that I never knew
upon whose mountains, I am told, I first crawled.
I am from the old and scratched blue station wagon
bought the year I was born
the year of dragons.
I am from the large warm hands of my sisters
and my older brother’s prayers.
I am from the cold bathwater, dripping and wet.
I am from the absences of my father and his age
and the ages that my siblings had long before I was born.
I am from a playground in Japan
and the boat which took me there
from the other side of the world.
I am.
I say I am
from the death of my grandfather
who died washing dishes
which may not be surprising
to some.
To some, I am from the airport in Atlanta
and the waiting room there where I slept
elevated by two chairs
while snow fell from the blackened sky.
How strange to believe, to realize, that I am from that snow
again dripping and wet with one eye throbbing
with leafless branches above webbing the heavens
as the new year’s bonfire burned to ashes
and I am from the snowball that hit my eye
and knocked me into the cold, cold snowflakes
where I lay, waiting for midnight.
-------------------------------------
I enjoy this poem because it holds so many memories for me, and memories that I've been told. I also like how the last several images lead into each other. Who am I? Read the poems. :)
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Mexican Fireworks Story!
Okay, so this has nothing to do with a story about mexican fireworks, rather I didn't want to title this entry as "Some Random Poems", so I took the main bits from each of the three and combined them. Here's the poems:
The Mexican in America
I met him across the counter at Taco Bell,
me, ordering three hard taco supremes
he, working hard at three low-end jobs.
His accent asked me if I wanted a drink with that,
and I said yes, and that I spoke Spanish.
Every week we spoke across that counter,
about his lack of sleep and my language studies,
his bus ride to work, and my father’s car
and he became more than a poor immigrant,
hidden behind tanned skin and a black moustache:
a familiar face, and then a friend.
Then he lost one job
Then another gave him time-off
so I went skating with him one Saturday night.
Everybody needs a friend,
and though he lived with a tribe of countrymen,
they left him alone when they tossed back the beer,
so he called on me to come down.
The rink was small, filled mainly with children and teenagers,
plus one old guy who’d been skating since age ten.
I was like child: slow, wobbling, unsure
if I could safely turn around or stop without falling.
While my friend jumped empty chairs followed by pirouettes,
one of the best, the fastest, a man with talent.
Too bad the rink was small, containing him
from spinning out into the abandoned streets,
The centripetal force of the walls crushing his hopes
to become famous, well-known, an individual.
The gravity kept him orbiting in empty circles,
magnificent circles, though they were.
--------------------------------
This poem is taken from my feeling about an experience with a Mexican friend of mine who works at Taco Bell and loves roller skating. Surprise, huh? I think the poem otherwise speaks for itself - who am I to be where I am in life, and who is he to be where he is?
--------------------------------
Fireworks, revisited
Like burnt leaves fell,
like an amber willow tree
dipped her hands into that black sky
above us, the fireworks left their mark.
I pulled out of the darkness my watch
and noticed the infant cry awake,
the police look down,
and the girls talk behind her.
It they who spoke and not her,
silent when I turned to listen.
Instead she looked at the colors change
the green, yellow, and red,
that I remembered when the trees hid the moon
on our way home; she said it flickered
like the fireworks white finale:
autumn dying into winter.
--------------------------
The title for this one isn't really set, but because the situation pairs up so much with my other Fireworks poem, I've considered combining them into a two part poem. Then again, i might not because truly the feeling of the two poems (not to mention the content and the people involved) are very different. Who knows, but I still like it.
--------------------------
Unfinished Stories
If I could tell you from my unfinished stories,
the endings, the happiness, the characters plenty,
you might ask the question that I asked before,
– “How many?”
How many leaves can you count in my hair?
How many flowers behind my back?
How many times will I be unaware
that I left you with white, while my ink is black?
If you could tell me from your broken clocks,
ripped-up calendars, and hidden sky, then
I might ask as we walk round the block,
– “When?”
When will you say that a story’s done?
When will we get out from under the rain?
When will we agree that the endings are one
when two people start over again?
---------------------------
Basically the first part of this poem basically popped into my head and I thought it sounded interested, so I went from there. I enjoy most of it, though I feel it could still use some work. Heck, they all could. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy these!
The Mexican in America
I met him across the counter at Taco Bell,
me, ordering three hard taco supremes
he, working hard at three low-end jobs.
His accent asked me if I wanted a drink with that,
and I said yes, and that I spoke Spanish.
Every week we spoke across that counter,
about his lack of sleep and my language studies,
his bus ride to work, and my father’s car
and he became more than a poor immigrant,
hidden behind tanned skin and a black moustache:
a familiar face, and then a friend.
Then he lost one job
Then another gave him time-off
so I went skating with him one Saturday night.
Everybody needs a friend,
and though he lived with a tribe of countrymen,
they left him alone when they tossed back the beer,
so he called on me to come down.
The rink was small, filled mainly with children and teenagers,
plus one old guy who’d been skating since age ten.
I was like child: slow, wobbling, unsure
if I could safely turn around or stop without falling.
While my friend jumped empty chairs followed by pirouettes,
one of the best, the fastest, a man with talent.
Too bad the rink was small, containing him
from spinning out into the abandoned streets,
The centripetal force of the walls crushing his hopes
to become famous, well-known, an individual.
The gravity kept him orbiting in empty circles,
magnificent circles, though they were.
--------------------------------
This poem is taken from my feeling about an experience with a Mexican friend of mine who works at Taco Bell and loves roller skating. Surprise, huh? I think the poem otherwise speaks for itself - who am I to be where I am in life, and who is he to be where he is?
--------------------------------
Fireworks, revisited
Like burnt leaves fell,
like an amber willow tree
dipped her hands into that black sky
above us, the fireworks left their mark.
I pulled out of the darkness my watch
and noticed the infant cry awake,
the police look down,
and the girls talk behind her.
It they who spoke and not her,
silent when I turned to listen.
Instead she looked at the colors change
the green, yellow, and red,
that I remembered when the trees hid the moon
on our way home; she said it flickered
like the fireworks white finale:
autumn dying into winter.
--------------------------
The title for this one isn't really set, but because the situation pairs up so much with my other Fireworks poem, I've considered combining them into a two part poem. Then again, i might not because truly the feeling of the two poems (not to mention the content and the people involved) are very different. Who knows, but I still like it.
--------------------------
Unfinished Stories
If I could tell you from my unfinished stories,
the endings, the happiness, the characters plenty,
you might ask the question that I asked before,
– “How many?”
How many leaves can you count in my hair?
How many flowers behind my back?
How many times will I be unaware
that I left you with white, while my ink is black?
If you could tell me from your broken clocks,
ripped-up calendars, and hidden sky, then
I might ask as we walk round the block,
– “When?”
When will you say that a story’s done?
When will we get out from under the rain?
When will we agree that the endings are one
when two people start over again?
---------------------------
Basically the first part of this poem basically popped into my head and I thought it sounded interested, so I went from there. I enjoy most of it, though I feel it could still use some work. Heck, they all could. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy these!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
For My Grandmother
The passing of a close relative is a strange experience. I can't say that I'm grieving or mortally wounded by it, because I believe her to be in a better place, hopefully reunited with my grandfather, etc. But nonetheless, the experience is strange and in such a way that it's hard to describe. And if it's hard to describe, that means it'll come out in my poetry for a while, in small ways (such as my poem Lightning), or as the main topic such as in the following two poems. The first is a revised version of an older poem, while the second one is newer and probably harder to follow, but I'm trying. Comments welcome and appreciated.
The Archeologist
O remember that my life is wind – Job 2:7
I remember Stonehenge: the rocks piled together,
and the dawn casting shadows like a river of darkness.
My grandmother paused on the outside of the circle
perhaps imagining herself with a brush,
unearthing history with a gentle touch,
or seeing as the ancients the passing of days,
a cold solstice foretelling the long nights.
And I remember the ruins in Scotland
a village once covered when wind pushed the sand.
Then it lay below us, she and I, walking through time,
entering in homes that once sheltered families
like a child and his grandmother, talking around the fire,
or herself, young with her husband around the dinner table,
in a timeless scene with one son and three daughters.
I wish I could unveil more than the garden remains
of an old island home, lost in this tumultuous aging sea.
But this is how I discover: digging through memories,
sifting through them for the twinkle in my grandmother’s eyes.
--------------------------------
I read this poem at her graveside. It was okay and people liked it as far as I could tell, but, as expressed in the next poem, it felt inadequate. I'll keep revising it.
--------------------------------
Collage Of My Grandmother’s Memorial
Her four children leave the church singing
about the shivery river. An upbeat tune
but who can hide? who knows how soon
pain (do I feel it?) will be stinging?
Ready for the river,
It is the young ones who throw in the dirt
over the deep urn. A girl takes the rose
from the silent bouquet at her toes,
to this pit, and soils her skirt.
the shiver-y river
the river that goes down to the sea.
In clumps at the monument, we reminisce
when suddenly rises some clarinet’s cry:
a minor jazz melody, from off to the side
where my cousin’s soul doubts this:
gonna drown all my troubles
and leave only bubbles
Who am I to stand up and read
a poem, written and revised but one time?
a collection of memories lacking in rhyme,
inadequate to give voice to my plea:
to indicate what used to be me.
I sing as my mother sings; I follow her,
the congregation also. I can’t break away
from this celebration of life. Can’t stray
to that distant tree, her home now hollow:
---------------------------
Doing a collage that is understandable is hard because, by nature, a collage has nothing to do with sequence, but the overall picture. That being said, I want it to be understandable. The italicized lines are meant to be the song that was being sung out of the church. Does it work? I'm trying to capture a bit of the strange feeling, but again, that's a feeling that's hard to describe. So help me out. Hope you enjoy these.
The Archeologist
O remember that my life is wind – Job 2:7
I remember Stonehenge: the rocks piled together,
and the dawn casting shadows like a river of darkness.
My grandmother paused on the outside of the circle
perhaps imagining herself with a brush,
unearthing history with a gentle touch,
or seeing as the ancients the passing of days,
a cold solstice foretelling the long nights.
And I remember the ruins in Scotland
a village once covered when wind pushed the sand.
Then it lay below us, she and I, walking through time,
entering in homes that once sheltered families
like a child and his grandmother, talking around the fire,
or herself, young with her husband around the dinner table,
in a timeless scene with one son and three daughters.
I wish I could unveil more than the garden remains
of an old island home, lost in this tumultuous aging sea.
But this is how I discover: digging through memories,
sifting through them for the twinkle in my grandmother’s eyes.
--------------------------------
I read this poem at her graveside. It was okay and people liked it as far as I could tell, but, as expressed in the next poem, it felt inadequate. I'll keep revising it.
--------------------------------
Collage Of My Grandmother’s Memorial
Her four children leave the church singing
about the shivery river. An upbeat tune
but who can hide? who knows how soon
pain (do I feel it?) will be stinging?
Ready for the river,
It is the young ones who throw in the dirt
over the deep urn. A girl takes the rose
from the silent bouquet at her toes,
to this pit, and soils her skirt.
the shiver-y river
the river that goes down to the sea.
In clumps at the monument, we reminisce
when suddenly rises some clarinet’s cry:
a minor jazz melody, from off to the side
where my cousin’s soul doubts this:
gonna drown all my troubles
and leave only bubbles
Who am I to stand up and read
a poem, written and revised but one time?
a collection of memories lacking in rhyme,
inadequate to give voice to my plea:
to indicate what used to be me.
I sing as my mother sings; I follow her,
the congregation also. I can’t break away
from this celebration of life. Can’t stray
to that distant tree, her home now hollow:
---------------------------
Doing a collage that is understandable is hard because, by nature, a collage has nothing to do with sequence, but the overall picture. That being said, I want it to be understandable. The italicized lines are meant to be the song that was being sung out of the church. Does it work? I'm trying to capture a bit of the strange feeling, but again, that's a feeling that's hard to describe. So help me out. Hope you enjoy these.
Monday, October 4, 2010
"Refined like a poem"
So recently, I've had the great opportunity to have one on one poetry revision sessions with a guy named Shawn who's an MFA student in poetry at UNCG. It's been amazing; I tell ya. It takes us about 2 hours to go over three poems. I've done this twice and therefore the following post will be six revised poems. They're awesome. Read them. Tell me what you think. I'd love it if you compared them to the originals and told me if you liked the changes or no and why. But maybe that's asking too much of you. If you just read them and enjoy them, I'll be satisfied, especially if you tell me you enjoyed them. Thanks!
---------------------------
Portrait of a Roommate
I hear through dreams and I smell the smoke,
the silent alarm that drags me out awake.
Tomorrow sits on the couch,
ashes between his fingers, beer can empty,
confesses he forgot to walk around the block
complains of a headache and the bright lights,
the ones shining high in the open corridor.
But he won’t go to bed when I tell him to.
No, he just watches sports on TV
though he pays no attention, not even thinking.
Inside him is an emptiness that smells
of abandon, of rage beneath the blank face.
I yield to my room and turn off the switch again.
I want to sleep, but I turn to the wall too often,
imagining I can move in with Yesterday.
-------------------------
Shawn enjoyed the idea of Tomorrow trying to forget tomorrow and, while I sort of had that concept, he put it into words, which helped a bit in the revision of this poem.
-------------------------
The Napkin
Once, this was written on a white napkin
while waiting for take-out in a Chinese restaurant.
The original will be lost someday:
smeared with grease, or used as a tissue,
or left in the backseat of a car to be trampled
and then thrown out.
I say this so you won’t forget beginnings:
often malleable, yet easily forgotten.
In these ways we connect, this napkin and I.
Storms soak us and bitter times tear us.
But looking back I remember who I was and who I am,
even as I hope you find yourself
in the reflection of a glass of water at home,
while you wash your hands of old dirt,
or when you hear your own steps on a crowded street.
The smiles around you confirm that you are alive again,
refined like this poem, printed on a fresh page.
---------------------------
Shawn liked this poem because it avoided sentimentality, for the most part. I did do a slight edit to avoid that a little more, but the overall feeling of the poem is the same. He also pointed out that if I'm the one who remembers who I am, shouldn't the reader be the one who remembers who they are. Yeah, that makes sense to me, too. Finally, he pointed out that "restored" wasn't strong enough a word for the end, that I needed a word that not only showed life, but improvement. I think I found it in "refined."
---------------------------
The Milky Way
As if I was a child spilling onto the night sky
his bowl of cereal dripping with milk,
so too I catch my breath tonight
before it can join the galaxy up there,
there where ancient stars circle.
Dark rivers swirl bright
whirlpools, sinking out of reach.
My faint sparkle drowns.
In this way my thoughts tremble,
in fear of a power that silences me
as if imagining the frown of a parent,
in awe of a force that makes me nothing,
a mess of feelings, splashed on the ground.
---------------------------
Most of the changes here were with the beginning, adding "I" into the first line. Not too much different here, but overall better, I believe.
---------------------------
Fast Food in the City
Back on the road, he unfolds the paper,
like the scuffing of feet on green grass.
I listen in the dark to the nature:
chewing, the animal and its cud,
hooves clopping down the trail.
The slurp becomes a nearby stream,
water rolling over the smooth stones,
churning onto rough rocks, yet unbroken.
Ice shakes in his cup: a distant thunder
from which none seek shelter.
And finally the wrapper crinkles in his hands,
as freshly fallen leaves crumple under toe
along the path to home, to what’s natural, to sleep.
He shows his satisfaction with a simple shrug.
---------------------------
Shawn also really liked this one. He pointed out that I could do more with the title to add to the meaning of the poem, so I did. He also just helped me to focus the images a bit so that each is slightly more accesible and with the impact in the right area.
---------------------------
Fireworks
She looks out the window,
and my eyes follow, out into the night,
where lamplights reveal emptiness. And then
I hear a drumming sound
of victory overtaking itself.
Like gunshots in the dark, only upwards.
This is what calls her attention.
There are no bursting colors
but sounds of bombs rising,
the black sky against the rumble
that she calls fireworks.
It is like the bass drums marching,
pounding their red hearts
and beating their chests.
It is an anxious symphony of clocks,
the crashing of chairs and tables,
doors closing against me. I look at her
before I notice the moment is over.
The triumphal noise ended long ago.
The defeated silence remains, hanging
like the new moon above us.
---------------------------
One things Shawn thought at first is that there was a riot outside, so in revision I tried to make it clearer that I was describing with images what I heard, not what was actually going on. If the reader gets caught up thinking that the fireworks are something other than fireworks, I need to work on that. I also tried some different line breaks to move along the reader, and because I think it makes more sense this way. I added the final line to emphasize the overall end feeling.
---------------------------
Lightning
“For nowadays the world is lit by lightning” – The Glass Menagerie
Lightning woke me that cold night in summer,
not an awareness of my toes, bare to the open window.
I am always a child in that image.
Lightning is a memory so faded that I can’t remember
more than the black and white, that it happened sometime,
never quite the way I imagine: with rain taking a midnight stroll,
the whole world sleeping but I, caught in wonder,
alone in shivering awake, of wanting to drift off.
All I show to you is mine and no one else’s.
Lightning is the scent of lavender, years later, at the door
of where I don’t consider home, though I dream there nightly
in a room small enough for one, smaller for two.
The thunder echoes, clapping for an encore,
that the stage should rule me, hold me in my seat,
for when life is struck, it doesn’t always move on.
Yet it is the sharpness that keeps me alive,
when the nightmare is that I can’t forget
when the girl doesn’t sit beside me anymore,
or when my grandmother died one afternoon.
I hold them with my bleeding hands in a flash of white,
until the darkness reminds me who I am.
---------------------------
This is the poem that took us the longest to go over because, I believe, it had a lot of potential. It's a poem that tries hard to connect two seemingly dissimilar things, lightning and memory, and do so in a clear way. It also tries to make use of a famous quote (yes, the quote is important to the poem. It inspired me to write the poem, but I didn't just add it in for kicks). So yeah, Shawn helped me understand what my language was inferring and thereby helped me know what could be improved/changed. And I think this version is much better. I hope you've enjoyed it, and all of them! Thanks for reading!
---------------------------
Portrait of a Roommate
I hear through dreams and I smell the smoke,
the silent alarm that drags me out awake.
Tomorrow sits on the couch,
ashes between his fingers, beer can empty,
confesses he forgot to walk around the block
complains of a headache and the bright lights,
the ones shining high in the open corridor.
But he won’t go to bed when I tell him to.
No, he just watches sports on TV
though he pays no attention, not even thinking.
Inside him is an emptiness that smells
of abandon, of rage beneath the blank face.
I yield to my room and turn off the switch again.
I want to sleep, but I turn to the wall too often,
imagining I can move in with Yesterday.
-------------------------
Shawn enjoyed the idea of Tomorrow trying to forget tomorrow and, while I sort of had that concept, he put it into words, which helped a bit in the revision of this poem.
-------------------------
The Napkin
Once, this was written on a white napkin
while waiting for take-out in a Chinese restaurant.
The original will be lost someday:
smeared with grease, or used as a tissue,
or left in the backseat of a car to be trampled
and then thrown out.
I say this so you won’t forget beginnings:
often malleable, yet easily forgotten.
In these ways we connect, this napkin and I.
Storms soak us and bitter times tear us.
But looking back I remember who I was and who I am,
even as I hope you find yourself
in the reflection of a glass of water at home,
while you wash your hands of old dirt,
or when you hear your own steps on a crowded street.
The smiles around you confirm that you are alive again,
refined like this poem, printed on a fresh page.
---------------------------
Shawn liked this poem because it avoided sentimentality, for the most part. I did do a slight edit to avoid that a little more, but the overall feeling of the poem is the same. He also pointed out that if I'm the one who remembers who I am, shouldn't the reader be the one who remembers who they are. Yeah, that makes sense to me, too. Finally, he pointed out that "restored" wasn't strong enough a word for the end, that I needed a word that not only showed life, but improvement. I think I found it in "refined."
---------------------------
The Milky Way
As if I was a child spilling onto the night sky
his bowl of cereal dripping with milk,
so too I catch my breath tonight
before it can join the galaxy up there,
there where ancient stars circle.
Dark rivers swirl bright
whirlpools, sinking out of reach.
My faint sparkle drowns.
In this way my thoughts tremble,
in fear of a power that silences me
as if imagining the frown of a parent,
in awe of a force that makes me nothing,
a mess of feelings, splashed on the ground.
---------------------------
Most of the changes here were with the beginning, adding "I" into the first line. Not too much different here, but overall better, I believe.
---------------------------
Fast Food in the City
Back on the road, he unfolds the paper,
like the scuffing of feet on green grass.
I listen in the dark to the nature:
chewing, the animal and its cud,
hooves clopping down the trail.
The slurp becomes a nearby stream,
water rolling over the smooth stones,
churning onto rough rocks, yet unbroken.
Ice shakes in his cup: a distant thunder
from which none seek shelter.
And finally the wrapper crinkles in his hands,
as freshly fallen leaves crumple under toe
along the path to home, to what’s natural, to sleep.
He shows his satisfaction with a simple shrug.
---------------------------
Shawn also really liked this one. He pointed out that I could do more with the title to add to the meaning of the poem, so I did. He also just helped me to focus the images a bit so that each is slightly more accesible and with the impact in the right area.
---------------------------
Fireworks
She looks out the window,
and my eyes follow, out into the night,
where lamplights reveal emptiness. And then
I hear a drumming sound
of victory overtaking itself.
Like gunshots in the dark, only upwards.
This is what calls her attention.
There are no bursting colors
but sounds of bombs rising,
the black sky against the rumble
that she calls fireworks.
It is like the bass drums marching,
pounding their red hearts
and beating their chests.
It is an anxious symphony of clocks,
the crashing of chairs and tables,
doors closing against me. I look at her
before I notice the moment is over.
The triumphal noise ended long ago.
The defeated silence remains, hanging
like the new moon above us.
---------------------------
One things Shawn thought at first is that there was a riot outside, so in revision I tried to make it clearer that I was describing with images what I heard, not what was actually going on. If the reader gets caught up thinking that the fireworks are something other than fireworks, I need to work on that. I also tried some different line breaks to move along the reader, and because I think it makes more sense this way. I added the final line to emphasize the overall end feeling.
---------------------------
Lightning
“For nowadays the world is lit by lightning” – The Glass Menagerie
Lightning woke me that cold night in summer,
not an awareness of my toes, bare to the open window.
I am always a child in that image.
Lightning is a memory so faded that I can’t remember
more than the black and white, that it happened sometime,
never quite the way I imagine: with rain taking a midnight stroll,
the whole world sleeping but I, caught in wonder,
alone in shivering awake, of wanting to drift off.
All I show to you is mine and no one else’s.
Lightning is the scent of lavender, years later, at the door
of where I don’t consider home, though I dream there nightly
in a room small enough for one, smaller for two.
The thunder echoes, clapping for an encore,
that the stage should rule me, hold me in my seat,
for when life is struck, it doesn’t always move on.
Yet it is the sharpness that keeps me alive,
when the nightmare is that I can’t forget
when the girl doesn’t sit beside me anymore,
or when my grandmother died one afternoon.
I hold them with my bleeding hands in a flash of white,
until the darkness reminds me who I am.
---------------------------
This is the poem that took us the longest to go over because, I believe, it had a lot of potential. It's a poem that tries hard to connect two seemingly dissimilar things, lightning and memory, and do so in a clear way. It also tries to make use of a famous quote (yes, the quote is important to the poem. It inspired me to write the poem, but I didn't just add it in for kicks). So yeah, Shawn helped me understand what my language was inferring and thereby helped me know what could be improved/changed. And I think this version is much better. I hope you've enjoyed it, and all of them! Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Previously Unreleased!
September is the best month for many reasons that shall go unnamed, but it seems to also be the best month for this lil' blog of mine. I mean, I just feel like updating it more often this month. The following are some poems written awhile ago that can't be found online, even on my other site (yes, I have another site that I no longer update. The link is on this very blod, in case you missed it). They're just poems that either didn't feel right at first, or for whatever reason I just didn't pass them around. Some are funny; some are personal; some are just interesting concepts taken from my overly active imagination. Hope you like 'em. :)
Savannah
Would you walk with me, if you could?
Though you were born small
you grew in my heart like this city.
I always returned to you, like the child I am,
but your center is the place I looked for,
where the lights shine. Yet you are hidden
in the alleys of the cobblestone streets
that line the river between us.
You draw me in like the marsh tide
and I cannot escape the one way streets
or the city squares that we would circle.
Time pulls at me; I cannot stay here.
I move away and seeing you becomes special,
as if I never took you for granted,
or wanted to get away from the old buildings,
the hanging oaks that hide the open sky.
Revisiting, I wonder who left who behind.
But this is the last time I’m coming back;
this is the end of the known roads;
these are the final steps of childhood.
-----------------------
Elegy from Savannah
I.
This is the last look into my world,
one of many created, one of my many stars,
the lighthouses that guide me home.
Even in the dark of night, I could find my way here.
The stars shine bright far from the city;
I would watch them from the lawn out back.
At the peak of my youth, I saw meteors falling
and I too am coming down, one last time
to see the house where I grew up,
the house that I am leaving behind.
The welcome lights are on inside,
but now they remind me of fire.
II.
The boxes line the hallway and the stairs.
Dust, like the sun, hangs in the air.
As if I’ve entered inside my heart
and begun to take the rooms apart,
unshelving the memories left behind.
I thought I would cry, but the feeling’s numb;
this kind of clean-up clutters my mind,
trying to package what I’ve become.
I wish, sometimes, to return to where
the house was the world of each new start.
------------------------
College Guys
Some college guys still wear diapers.
Not the paper or cloth kind,
but something a little more spiritual,
not wanting to flush or shower
like they think Peter Pan would do it,
perhaps mistaking regression for rebellion,
because they never learned to spell good.
Sometimes I’m too angry and harsh;
I don’t mean to say I’ve grown up,
being the “capable guy” in a black suit
who slides into work with black Porsche.
That’s not the point, never was.
College isn’t about escaping our home,
but becoming our own parent.
Somewhere in a white room
you’re an old man catered to by nurses
who change your diaper and feed you.
You’re done. You can’t do it anymore.
Is this the picture you’re painting?
You might think I’m suggesting growth
but maybe I’m saying “take care of yourself.”
The original reason you came here, wasn’t it like that?
---------------------------
Envy
I believed it was magical, your life,
like the fairytales I read night after night.
You with her, smiling like heroes
riding away with the sunset in sight.
But you told me it was a labyrinth
with forking paths and no set trail,
no string rolling behind you, and no compass
to the red center, an end yet veiled.
To think a wish could trap your soul
and drag the imagination of your heart
through hedges and dirt, and leave marks
on your world; I, too, want a clean start.
We are alike; I give back the words:
“You don’t know how good you are.”
To think I wanted to be something like you,
I’ll throw away envy, but remember the scar.
-------------------------------
Like Children On Swings
When does love begin?
Even a child can see in my eyes
the embers catching flame in the wind.
He asks his simple question as we stand apart
in a room of crowded people:
“Do you love her?”
I see her talking over there.
Dreams and overplayed images
flow from my mind to my heart,
a flooding river. I say,
“I don’t know.”
and laugh at nothing, eyes looking away.
When does love begin?
Leave it to a child to drag such heavy words
from the depths of my well.
There’ll be no easy sleep tonight,
with thoughts sloshing side to side,
like a bucket, half empty.
I already don’t know when I’m dreaming,
but I often wake before sunrise.
If smiling and laughing with you was enough,
I could give you beautiful words.
If unease and shots to my gut were simple things,
I could move on from here.
But as it is, we’re like children on swings:
meeting for moments and going nowhere.
----------------------------
The Silent Dream
I saw the closed door at the end of the long hallway,
there where people once dwelled, but now the lights were off
for I knew the furthest rooms were vacant,
the beds stripped one by one, and the furniture put in place.
I stood with cold bare feet at the other end by the drinking fountain
beneath a bright glow that stretched itself even to this distant door,
the one that appeared stuck shut and glued by the shadows
until it silently opened, as if sliding on well-oiled hinges.
My father came out of the darkness as a young man.
He who I recognized from pictures passed the empty places
to put in the mouth of my hands a small gold throne
complete with the old king, whose weight I could not bear.
We held it together, molding away my darker fears
detailing instead airplanes, butterflies, and angels
but I didn’t fly away or drop the ancient treasure
because he showed me how to hold it alone.
Then a child tugged at my pant-leg, my unknown child.
What could I do for him, now with my hands full?
Though he was tired and thirsty I could not carry him,
and my father had vanished, so we were alone together.
The eyes of that child trusted me and looked up to me.
So I took my father’s treasure and formed a footstool
upon which he stood to drink from the fountain’s river.
Surely in his dreams he will remember what I handed down.
------------------------
The Old Man’s Torch
In a stubborn dry field
where dusk singes the horizon
and shines like fool’s gold off the tall grass,
but reveals no path to tread
the old man is walking
step by step.
Torch in hand
and wearing the black of night,
he overlooks the unkempt remains
of a long and fruitful season
coming to a fated end
step by step.
The flames yearn to escape
from the dark wind to this wasted space.
He readies his torch to swing like a scythe.
“You’ve had your freedom.
Here is justice.
The harvest is over.”
Savannah
Would you walk with me, if you could?
Though you were born small
you grew in my heart like this city.
I always returned to you, like the child I am,
but your center is the place I looked for,
where the lights shine. Yet you are hidden
in the alleys of the cobblestone streets
that line the river between us.
You draw me in like the marsh tide
and I cannot escape the one way streets
or the city squares that we would circle.
Time pulls at me; I cannot stay here.
I move away and seeing you becomes special,
as if I never took you for granted,
or wanted to get away from the old buildings,
the hanging oaks that hide the open sky.
Revisiting, I wonder who left who behind.
But this is the last time I’m coming back;
this is the end of the known roads;
these are the final steps of childhood.
-----------------------
Elegy from Savannah
I.
This is the last look into my world,
one of many created, one of my many stars,
the lighthouses that guide me home.
Even in the dark of night, I could find my way here.
The stars shine bright far from the city;
I would watch them from the lawn out back.
At the peak of my youth, I saw meteors falling
and I too am coming down, one last time
to see the house where I grew up,
the house that I am leaving behind.
The welcome lights are on inside,
but now they remind me of fire.
II.
The boxes line the hallway and the stairs.
Dust, like the sun, hangs in the air.
As if I’ve entered inside my heart
and begun to take the rooms apart,
unshelving the memories left behind.
I thought I would cry, but the feeling’s numb;
this kind of clean-up clutters my mind,
trying to package what I’ve become.
I wish, sometimes, to return to where
the house was the world of each new start.
------------------------
College Guys
Some college guys still wear diapers.
Not the paper or cloth kind,
but something a little more spiritual,
not wanting to flush or shower
like they think Peter Pan would do it,
perhaps mistaking regression for rebellion,
because they never learned to spell good.
Sometimes I’m too angry and harsh;
I don’t mean to say I’ve grown up,
being the “capable guy” in a black suit
who slides into work with black Porsche.
That’s not the point, never was.
College isn’t about escaping our home,
but becoming our own parent.
Somewhere in a white room
you’re an old man catered to by nurses
who change your diaper and feed you.
You’re done. You can’t do it anymore.
Is this the picture you’re painting?
You might think I’m suggesting growth
but maybe I’m saying “take care of yourself.”
The original reason you came here, wasn’t it like that?
---------------------------
Envy
I believed it was magical, your life,
like the fairytales I read night after night.
You with her, smiling like heroes
riding away with the sunset in sight.
But you told me it was a labyrinth
with forking paths and no set trail,
no string rolling behind you, and no compass
to the red center, an end yet veiled.
To think a wish could trap your soul
and drag the imagination of your heart
through hedges and dirt, and leave marks
on your world; I, too, want a clean start.
We are alike; I give back the words:
“You don’t know how good you are.”
To think I wanted to be something like you,
I’ll throw away envy, but remember the scar.
-------------------------------
Like Children On Swings
When does love begin?
Even a child can see in my eyes
the embers catching flame in the wind.
He asks his simple question as we stand apart
in a room of crowded people:
“Do you love her?”
I see her talking over there.
Dreams and overplayed images
flow from my mind to my heart,
a flooding river. I say,
“I don’t know.”
and laugh at nothing, eyes looking away.
When does love begin?
Leave it to a child to drag such heavy words
from the depths of my well.
There’ll be no easy sleep tonight,
with thoughts sloshing side to side,
like a bucket, half empty.
I already don’t know when I’m dreaming,
but I often wake before sunrise.
If smiling and laughing with you was enough,
I could give you beautiful words.
If unease and shots to my gut were simple things,
I could move on from here.
But as it is, we’re like children on swings:
meeting for moments and going nowhere.
----------------------------
The Silent Dream
I saw the closed door at the end of the long hallway,
there where people once dwelled, but now the lights were off
for I knew the furthest rooms were vacant,
the beds stripped one by one, and the furniture put in place.
I stood with cold bare feet at the other end by the drinking fountain
beneath a bright glow that stretched itself even to this distant door,
the one that appeared stuck shut and glued by the shadows
until it silently opened, as if sliding on well-oiled hinges.
My father came out of the darkness as a young man.
He who I recognized from pictures passed the empty places
to put in the mouth of my hands a small gold throne
complete with the old king, whose weight I could not bear.
We held it together, molding away my darker fears
detailing instead airplanes, butterflies, and angels
but I didn’t fly away or drop the ancient treasure
because he showed me how to hold it alone.
Then a child tugged at my pant-leg, my unknown child.
What could I do for him, now with my hands full?
Though he was tired and thirsty I could not carry him,
and my father had vanished, so we were alone together.
The eyes of that child trusted me and looked up to me.
So I took my father’s treasure and formed a footstool
upon which he stood to drink from the fountain’s river.
Surely in his dreams he will remember what I handed down.
------------------------
The Old Man’s Torch
In a stubborn dry field
where dusk singes the horizon
and shines like fool’s gold off the tall grass,
but reveals no path to tread
the old man is walking
step by step.
Torch in hand
and wearing the black of night,
he overlooks the unkempt remains
of a long and fruitful season
coming to a fated end
step by step.
The flames yearn to escape
from the dark wind to this wasted space.
He readies his torch to swing like a scythe.
“You’ve had your freedom.
Here is justice.
The harvest is over.”
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Two Oldies But Goodies
When I Became Poetry
It was then I loved
Poetry and blue passions.
Students led to rain
Beneath concrete passageways
To feel January’s breath
Moistening the mind.
Told of the haiku:
A distillation of force
Of simplicity.
Not a poet then, but air
Pure and without complexity
Or torrential dreams.
Passion pierces stone,
Water eddies in thin streams,
Wishing to take form
Over my young, broad shoulders
To soak me into being.
I write in ripples.
Oak leaves drift downwards.
Though nothing else comes near me,
The rain is coming.
And if I open my palm,
With ears and eyes listening,
It will catch moments.
------------------
This poem is one of my personal favorites. It originated in 8th grade, walking outside on a rainy day, as described, while studying haikus. And then the teacher had us write several haikus, which I did. Years passes and I got to college, and then I looked back at these haikus and wanted to do more with them. I learned of the tanka, which is 5,7,5,7,7, instead of the haiku's 5,7,5. And so I thought to make this a single poem consisting of four tanka. But somehow, I thought it was 5,7,5,7,7,5. I've probably lost many of you, but if you still understand what I'm talking about, then you'll know that I messed up with this poem. But I don't care, 'cause I like it anyway.
--------------------
What goes unnoticed
Perhaps I don’t look nervous, standing before you,
two legs crumbling beneath me.
But I am a piece on auction
and no one is raising their hands.
I am girl being sold into marriage
who cannot let her tears down
or slouch her back or bat an eye.
I am a fool in the stocks,
humiliated and revealed.
How close are you watching?
Has one of us blinked?
Here I am in the spotlight of a stage,
protected only by a practiced masquerade,
while you wait in the glare of shadows.
It is amazing what goes unnoticed.
It was easier when you saw me
as introverted and unfriendly,
not trying to see beyond the stoic mask
and drowning steady voice.
What lies in the tap of my feet,
the plunge of my hand into a pocket,
or the swivel of my head
as I look no man in the eye.
Loneliness and fear
I have sucked inside like a deep breath.
I must continue on.
------------------
Every time I talk about this poem, I say how much I would love to be on a stage and start reciting this poem as if it weren't a poem, as if I was just talking. That'd really surprise everybody, eh? And I would be nervous too! But anyway, I like this poem a lot because I, personally, do tend to read into body language a lot. And because sometimes it's easier to be unknown to others. Not always. I like being around others and having fun and all, but sometimes... in the midst of it all, I begin to wonder which is easier. And I think they both have their difficulties at times. Anyway, I also enjoy poems where I compare myself to a girl because I think it throws people for a loop. Many things do I like about the poem. Hope y'all like these poems too, even if you've already read them before because, as I said, these are not new.
It was then I loved
Poetry and blue passions.
Students led to rain
Beneath concrete passageways
To feel January’s breath
Moistening the mind.
Told of the haiku:
A distillation of force
Of simplicity.
Not a poet then, but air
Pure and without complexity
Or torrential dreams.
Passion pierces stone,
Water eddies in thin streams,
Wishing to take form
Over my young, broad shoulders
To soak me into being.
I write in ripples.
Oak leaves drift downwards.
Though nothing else comes near me,
The rain is coming.
And if I open my palm,
With ears and eyes listening,
It will catch moments.
------------------
This poem is one of my personal favorites. It originated in 8th grade, walking outside on a rainy day, as described, while studying haikus. And then the teacher had us write several haikus, which I did. Years passes and I got to college, and then I looked back at these haikus and wanted to do more with them. I learned of the tanka, which is 5,7,5,7,7, instead of the haiku's 5,7,5. And so I thought to make this a single poem consisting of four tanka. But somehow, I thought it was 5,7,5,7,7,5. I've probably lost many of you, but if you still understand what I'm talking about, then you'll know that I messed up with this poem. But I don't care, 'cause I like it anyway.
--------------------
What goes unnoticed
Perhaps I don’t look nervous, standing before you,
two legs crumbling beneath me.
But I am a piece on auction
and no one is raising their hands.
I am girl being sold into marriage
who cannot let her tears down
or slouch her back or bat an eye.
I am a fool in the stocks,
humiliated and revealed.
How close are you watching?
Has one of us blinked?
Here I am in the spotlight of a stage,
protected only by a practiced masquerade,
while you wait in the glare of shadows.
It is amazing what goes unnoticed.
It was easier when you saw me
as introverted and unfriendly,
not trying to see beyond the stoic mask
and drowning steady voice.
What lies in the tap of my feet,
the plunge of my hand into a pocket,
or the swivel of my head
as I look no man in the eye.
Loneliness and fear
I have sucked inside like a deep breath.
I must continue on.
------------------
Every time I talk about this poem, I say how much I would love to be on a stage and start reciting this poem as if it weren't a poem, as if I was just talking. That'd really surprise everybody, eh? And I would be nervous too! But anyway, I like this poem a lot because I, personally, do tend to read into body language a lot. And because sometimes it's easier to be unknown to others. Not always. I like being around others and having fun and all, but sometimes... in the midst of it all, I begin to wonder which is easier. And I think they both have their difficulties at times. Anyway, I also enjoy poems where I compare myself to a girl because I think it throws people for a loop. Many things do I like about the poem. Hope y'all like these poems too, even if you've already read them before because, as I said, these are not new.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Fast Food
Fast Food
Back on the road, he unfolds the paper,
carefully like feet scuffing the grass.
I listen in the dark to the nature made known
by the chewing, the animal and its cud,
the hooves clopping down the trail.
The slurp becomes a nearby stream,
water rolling over the smooth stones,
churning onto rough rocks, yet unbroken.
The shaking of ice: a distant thunder
no one fears and from which none seek shelter.
And finally the wrapper crinkles in his hands,
as freshly fallen leaves crumpled under toe
along the path to home, to safety, to sleep.
He shrugs and tells me he’s satisfied.
--------------------------
So the inspiration from this came tonight when I was driving back with some friends from the Temple near Raleigh and we stopped off to get some food at Wendy's because they were hungry. After we had our food we talked a lil' while until suddenly there was silence and I could hear all the sounds of them eating in the car. And it dawned on me how many of the sounds could be compared to nature. And then I thought, "Well that's just a cheap replacement." And then I decided I ought to write a poem about it. Just as sometimes we're "satisfied" by cheap replacements for food, so it is with nature and life in general. And that's sad. Hope you like the poem!
Back on the road, he unfolds the paper,
carefully like feet scuffing the grass.
I listen in the dark to the nature made known
by the chewing, the animal and its cud,
the hooves clopping down the trail.
The slurp becomes a nearby stream,
water rolling over the smooth stones,
churning onto rough rocks, yet unbroken.
The shaking of ice: a distant thunder
no one fears and from which none seek shelter.
And finally the wrapper crinkles in his hands,
as freshly fallen leaves crumpled under toe
along the path to home, to safety, to sleep.
He shrugs and tells me he’s satisfied.
--------------------------
So the inspiration from this came tonight when I was driving back with some friends from the Temple near Raleigh and we stopped off to get some food at Wendy's because they were hungry. After we had our food we talked a lil' while until suddenly there was silence and I could hear all the sounds of them eating in the car. And it dawned on me how many of the sounds could be compared to nature. And then I thought, "Well that's just a cheap replacement." And then I decided I ought to write a poem about it. Just as sometimes we're "satisfied" by cheap replacements for food, so it is with nature and life in general. And that's sad. Hope you like the poem!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Fireworks and The Archeologist
Two poems posted today, both written several weeks ago and polished slightly since then. The first received its inspiration from hearing fireworks, but not seeing them out the window, while the second I wrote, wanting to write something for the passing of my grandmother, over a week ago. The images come from a trip I took with her some years ago. Well, here they are:
Fireworks
She looks out the window,
and my eyes follow, out into the night,
where lamplights reveal emptiness.
And then I hear the drumming sound
of victory overtaking itself.
The gunshots in the dark, upwards.
This is what calls her attention.
There are no bursting colors
or sounds of bombs dropping,
only the black sky against the rumble
that she calls fireworks.
It is like the marching band,
pounding their red hearts
and beating their chests.
It is a never-ending symphony of clocks,
the crashing of chairs and tables,
doors closing against me.
All this happens out of view.
I forget to listen and the moment disappears.
The triumphal noise has ended long ago.
The lonely silence returns.
------------------------
The Archeologist
O remember that my life is wind – Job 2:7
I remember Stonehenge: the rocks piled together,
and the dawn casting shadows like a river of darkness.
My grandmother stopped on the outside of the circle
perhaps imagining herself with a brush,
uncovering history with a gentle touch,
or seeing as the ancients the passing of days,
a cold solstice foretelling the long nights.
And I remember the ruins in Scotland
a village once covered when wind pushed the sand.
Then it lay below us, she and I, walking through time,
entering in homes that once sheltered families
a child and his grandmother, talking around the fire,
or a young mother and father around the dinner table,
in a timeless scene with one son and three daughters.
I wish I could reveal more than the garden remains
of an old island home, lost in this tumultuous aging sea.
But this is how I discover: exploring memories,
searching for the twinkle in my grandmother’s eyes.
Fireworks
She looks out the window,
and my eyes follow, out into the night,
where lamplights reveal emptiness.
And then I hear the drumming sound
of victory overtaking itself.
The gunshots in the dark, upwards.
This is what calls her attention.
There are no bursting colors
or sounds of bombs dropping,
only the black sky against the rumble
that she calls fireworks.
It is like the marching band,
pounding their red hearts
and beating their chests.
It is a never-ending symphony of clocks,
the crashing of chairs and tables,
doors closing against me.
All this happens out of view.
I forget to listen and the moment disappears.
The triumphal noise has ended long ago.
The lonely silence returns.
------------------------
The Archeologist
O remember that my life is wind – Job 2:7
I remember Stonehenge: the rocks piled together,
and the dawn casting shadows like a river of darkness.
My grandmother stopped on the outside of the circle
perhaps imagining herself with a brush,
uncovering history with a gentle touch,
or seeing as the ancients the passing of days,
a cold solstice foretelling the long nights.
And I remember the ruins in Scotland
a village once covered when wind pushed the sand.
Then it lay below us, she and I, walking through time,
entering in homes that once sheltered families
a child and his grandmother, talking around the fire,
or a young mother and father around the dinner table,
in a timeless scene with one son and three daughters.
I wish I could reveal more than the garden remains
of an old island home, lost in this tumultuous aging sea.
But this is how I discover: exploring memories,
searching for the twinkle in my grandmother’s eyes.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Lightning
Lightning
“For nowadays the world is lit by lightning” – The Glass Menagerie
Lightning is what woke me that cold night in summer,
not the sensation of my bare toes, or the open window.
I am always a child in that image.
Lightning is a memory so faded that I can’t remember
more than the black and white, that it happened sometime,
but never the way I imagine: with rain pouring outside,
with the whole world sleeping but I, caught in wonder,
alone in the experience of being hurt, of wanting to drift off.
All you see here is mine and no one else’s.
Lightning is the scent of lavender, years older, by the door
at a place that is not my home, though I dream nightly on the bed
in a room small enough for one, smaller for two.
The thunder echoes afterwards, clapping for an encore
telling me to get on stage, to reveal myself for your diversion
to forget that life has just been struck.
Yet it is the sharpness that keeps me alive,
when people come simply to leave me behind,
when the girl doesn’t walk with me anymore,
or when my grandmother passed away one afternoon.
I hold them with my bleeding hands in a flash of white,
until the darkness reminds me who I am.
-------------
Okay, so this poem probably needs some fleshing out still, since I wrote it last night and revised it slightly this morning, but I think it's a poem with a lot of promise. Also last night, I saw the play "The Glass Menagerie" with a friend and really enjoyed it. The quoted line is one of the last of the play and, considering that the play is a memory play, I made the connection between lightning and memory, and enjoyed the connection so much, whether it's what he meant or not, that I decided to write a poem with it. My mom also showed me a poem recently comparing one thing to many images and I wanted to do something like that too. So anyway, the poem is basically about how whether memory comforts us or haunts us, it is what so many people live from. And it's hard to escape, but somehow, it also makes everything else in the moment more alive. And yet in some ways, it also keeps us as children. I'm not sure if I just made any sense right now to you, but it makes some sort of garbled sense to me. Hope you liked it anyway. :)
“For nowadays the world is lit by lightning” – The Glass Menagerie
Lightning is what woke me that cold night in summer,
not the sensation of my bare toes, or the open window.
I am always a child in that image.
Lightning is a memory so faded that I can’t remember
more than the black and white, that it happened sometime,
but never the way I imagine: with rain pouring outside,
with the whole world sleeping but I, caught in wonder,
alone in the experience of being hurt, of wanting to drift off.
All you see here is mine and no one else’s.
Lightning is the scent of lavender, years older, by the door
at a place that is not my home, though I dream nightly on the bed
in a room small enough for one, smaller for two.
The thunder echoes afterwards, clapping for an encore
telling me to get on stage, to reveal myself for your diversion
to forget that life has just been struck.
Yet it is the sharpness that keeps me alive,
when people come simply to leave me behind,
when the girl doesn’t walk with me anymore,
or when my grandmother passed away one afternoon.
I hold them with my bleeding hands in a flash of white,
until the darkness reminds me who I am.
-------------
Okay, so this poem probably needs some fleshing out still, since I wrote it last night and revised it slightly this morning, but I think it's a poem with a lot of promise. Also last night, I saw the play "The Glass Menagerie" with a friend and really enjoyed it. The quoted line is one of the last of the play and, considering that the play is a memory play, I made the connection between lightning and memory, and enjoyed the connection so much, whether it's what he meant or not, that I decided to write a poem with it. My mom also showed me a poem recently comparing one thing to many images and I wanted to do something like that too. So anyway, the poem is basically about how whether memory comforts us or haunts us, it is what so many people live from. And it's hard to escape, but somehow, it also makes everything else in the moment more alive. And yet in some ways, it also keeps us as children. I'm not sure if I just made any sense right now to you, but it makes some sort of garbled sense to me. Hope you liked it anyway. :)
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Portrait of a Roommate
Portrait of a Roommate
I hear through dreams and I smell the smoke.
I find Tomorrow sitting on the couch,
ashes between his fingers, beer can empty,
telling me he forgot to go outside,
complaining of a headache and the bright lights,
the ones shining in the open corridor.
But he won’t go to bed when I tell him to.
No, he just watches sports on TV
though he isn’t paying attention, not even thinking.
Inside him is an emptiness that smells
of abandon, of hidden rage beneath the blank face.
I return to my room and turn off the switch again.
I want to sleep, but I turn to the wall too often,
imagining I can move in with Yesterday.
----------------------
Well some of you may know that I have a roommate that smokes and it drives me up the wall. So last night this scene basically happened, with some minor changes here and there for poetic effect, naturally. And yet, I decided to myself that the whole thing could be symbolic for someone who's immediate future doesn't look very good or is worrisome. Such is not my case, I like the looks of my future a lot, most of the time in most areas, but there's a lot of people, I think, that are having trouble. Like Tomorrow is some terrible that they can barely face, let alone stand up against. That's sort of what I was thinking while writing this, hence the inclusion of Tomorrow and Yesterday, here. Anyway, I had fun with it. Hope you enjoy it too.
I hear through dreams and I smell the smoke.
I find Tomorrow sitting on the couch,
ashes between his fingers, beer can empty,
telling me he forgot to go outside,
complaining of a headache and the bright lights,
the ones shining in the open corridor.
But he won’t go to bed when I tell him to.
No, he just watches sports on TV
though he isn’t paying attention, not even thinking.
Inside him is an emptiness that smells
of abandon, of hidden rage beneath the blank face.
I return to my room and turn off the switch again.
I want to sleep, but I turn to the wall too often,
imagining I can move in with Yesterday.
----------------------
Well some of you may know that I have a roommate that smokes and it drives me up the wall. So last night this scene basically happened, with some minor changes here and there for poetic effect, naturally. And yet, I decided to myself that the whole thing could be symbolic for someone who's immediate future doesn't look very good or is worrisome. Such is not my case, I like the looks of my future a lot, most of the time in most areas, but there's a lot of people, I think, that are having trouble. Like Tomorrow is some terrible that they can barely face, let alone stand up against. That's sort of what I was thinking while writing this, hence the inclusion of Tomorrow and Yesterday, here. Anyway, I had fun with it. Hope you enjoy it too.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Milky Way
The Milky Way
As if a child spilled onto the night sky
his bowl of cereal, dripping with milk
so too, I caught my breath tonight
before it could join the galaxy up there.
I am the child beneath these ancient stars.
Dark rivers swirl light:
whirlpools, sinking out of reach.
My faint sparkle drowns.
In this way my thoughts tremble,
in fear of a power that silences me
as before a parent, seething inside,
in awe of a force that makes me nothing,
a mess of feelings, splashed on the ground.
----------------------
Well, I wrote this a couple weeks ago when I was out in Utah and I could see the Milky Way. I could see it every night. And it was amazing every time. I'm constantly in awe of the vastness and greatness of the universe, life, existence, and such and I wanted to express that. The opening lines just sort of came to me as I was stargazing and then the three lines in the middle, well... ever since I read the Iliad, I've been slightly fascinated by extended metaphors - a metaphor where a change occurs not in the original
object, but in what it's being compared to. The idea of it intrigued me, and I haven't really seen it in any modern poetry, so I've been thinking recently that I'd like to reintroduce it or something. Anyway, that's some of the stuff that went into this poem. Hope you enjoy it!
As if a child spilled onto the night sky
his bowl of cereal, dripping with milk
so too, I caught my breath tonight
before it could join the galaxy up there.
I am the child beneath these ancient stars.
Dark rivers swirl light:
whirlpools, sinking out of reach.
My faint sparkle drowns.
In this way my thoughts tremble,
in fear of a power that silences me
as before a parent, seething inside,
in awe of a force that makes me nothing,
a mess of feelings, splashed on the ground.
----------------------
Well, I wrote this a couple weeks ago when I was out in Utah and I could see the Milky Way. I could see it every night. And it was amazing every time. I'm constantly in awe of the vastness and greatness of the universe, life, existence, and such and I wanted to express that. The opening lines just sort of came to me as I was stargazing and then the three lines in the middle, well... ever since I read the Iliad, I've been slightly fascinated by extended metaphors - a metaphor where a change occurs not in the original
object, but in what it's being compared to. The idea of it intrigued me, and I haven't really seen it in any modern poetry, so I've been thinking recently that I'd like to reintroduce it or something. Anyway, that's some of the stuff that went into this poem. Hope you enjoy it!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Object Imagery
Well well, it seems I've taken to mass-posting my poetry recently, instead of one at a time. I find it works out better if I give myself time to self edit the stuff a bit. Not that these will be perfect by any means. But I like 'em. So, the three here that I'm about to present all use objects as symbols. Two of the following situations are true and one is false. You can guess which is false if you like. Although, I think it's pretty obvious which one it is. Either way, i hope you enjoy ALL of them. Adelante.
Dead-Heading the Day-Lilies
Every morning, I circle the house beginning at the same set of day-lilies
where the orange ones are blooming, the earliest of summer.
As dark as a sunset, I cut away the old petals,
dripping with red juice that stains the hand that plucks them.
The first of many colors: later yellow, then red and purple.
The thin ones break easily between my fingertips.
And the short fat white ones, always wet from rain or dew,
are hidden in spider webs beneath their own leaves.
I trim them all until I arrive at the last blossoms
These overrun their patch, a paler shade of sunrise,
at the side of my home, beneath the kitchen windows
where the smells remind me of a deep hunger beckoning.
This is the pattern until fall. The path does not change day to day.
Yet though I move in circles, no two days are the same.
And some plants are yet young, unopened and ignored,
while empty stems are cut to the ground; they cannot run wild.
The flowers won’t return anymore; I’ve learned to shut my eyes
for every night, what was beautiful closes in the dark.
------------------
The Red Vase
Of everything I’ve broken I remember my red vase:
the spilled water when it broke like a dam breaking
a release of pressure and the relief to the sun-baked skin of the floor
I made the vase in art class, seventh grade,
painted it, glazed it, and polished it to show off.
I even told stories to my schoolmates
that neighbors complimented it when they came by
that my dad refused to sell it to his colleagues.
And in a month, nobody remembered it but me.
Yet the red appeared to bleed through to the wood
as it sat proudly centered and alone on its shelf.
I would glance at it from time to time,
writing in my journal or before I went to bed.
It dominated its corner of my room
and changed daily away from perfection
to a deformed pot with misshapen arms.
I should’ve smashed it from the beginning.
Now ripples breathe from the red shards on the ground
like they had once been part of my beating heart.
-----------------
The Napkin
Once, this was written on a white napkin
while waiting for take-out in a Chinese restaurant.
The original will be lost someday:
smeared with grease, or used as a tissue,
or left in the backseat of a car to be trampled on
and then thrown out to clean up.
I say this so you won’t forget beginnings:
often humble, malleable, yet easily forgotten.
In these ways we connect, this napkin and I.
Storms soak us and bitter times tear us.
But looking back I remember who I was and who I am,
even as I hope you are remembered today
in your home or on a busy street,
that a friend or a mother notes the change.
The smiles affirm that you are alive and splendid,
restored like this poem, printed on a fresh page.
----------------
I really enjoy these poems because their endings make me think. I believe the last one needs the most work perhaps, but hopefully the meaning is clear enough. Well, goodnight and sleep well.
Dead-Heading the Day-Lilies
Every morning, I circle the house beginning at the same set of day-lilies
where the orange ones are blooming, the earliest of summer.
As dark as a sunset, I cut away the old petals,
dripping with red juice that stains the hand that plucks them.
The first of many colors: later yellow, then red and purple.
The thin ones break easily between my fingertips.
And the short fat white ones, always wet from rain or dew,
are hidden in spider webs beneath their own leaves.
I trim them all until I arrive at the last blossoms
These overrun their patch, a paler shade of sunrise,
at the side of my home, beneath the kitchen windows
where the smells remind me of a deep hunger beckoning.
This is the pattern until fall. The path does not change day to day.
Yet though I move in circles, no two days are the same.
And some plants are yet young, unopened and ignored,
while empty stems are cut to the ground; they cannot run wild.
The flowers won’t return anymore; I’ve learned to shut my eyes
for every night, what was beautiful closes in the dark.
------------------
The Red Vase
Of everything I’ve broken I remember my red vase:
the spilled water when it broke like a dam breaking
a release of pressure and the relief to the sun-baked skin of the floor
I made the vase in art class, seventh grade,
painted it, glazed it, and polished it to show off.
I even told stories to my schoolmates
that neighbors complimented it when they came by
that my dad refused to sell it to his colleagues.
And in a month, nobody remembered it but me.
Yet the red appeared to bleed through to the wood
as it sat proudly centered and alone on its shelf.
I would glance at it from time to time,
writing in my journal or before I went to bed.
It dominated its corner of my room
and changed daily away from perfection
to a deformed pot with misshapen arms.
I should’ve smashed it from the beginning.
Now ripples breathe from the red shards on the ground
like they had once been part of my beating heart.
-----------------
The Napkin
Once, this was written on a white napkin
while waiting for take-out in a Chinese restaurant.
The original will be lost someday:
smeared with grease, or used as a tissue,
or left in the backseat of a car to be trampled on
and then thrown out to clean up.
I say this so you won’t forget beginnings:
often humble, malleable, yet easily forgotten.
In these ways we connect, this napkin and I.
Storms soak us and bitter times tear us.
But looking back I remember who I was and who I am,
even as I hope you are remembered today
in your home or on a busy street,
that a friend or a mother notes the change.
The smiles affirm that you are alive and splendid,
restored like this poem, printed on a fresh page.
----------------
I really enjoy these poems because their endings make me think. I believe the last one needs the most work perhaps, but hopefully the meaning is clear enough. Well, goodnight and sleep well.
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