Dreams
All wackiest
dreams are following
them _____ and
petting every cool
white fluffy cloud and
mother's words about
Life is to follow your perfect
Dreams
For more info, go here.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
"Dreams"
Dreams
All wackiest
dreams are following
them _____ and
petting every cool
white fluffy cloud and
mother's words about
Life is to follow your perfect
Dreams
For more info, go here.
"Independence"
Independence
Feels like it will heal my sickness
Independence will clear
but fill my mind I see red
white and blue sounds
like clinking
flowing in the
air taste sweet...
For more info, go here.
"Daring"
Daring
Color of camouflage, green and black which represents the valuable people who put their fearless lives on the line to protect their cherish country,
Smells brave like a bald eagle coursing for its sufferer, the rattle snake in the midnight darkness,
Tastes like a curious child accepting the vast risk to discover what really is inside the closet,
Feels like a lion in action for marvelous glory preparing to locate and demolish its reinforced competition,
Sounds like Barack Obama forcing his way, using his effective knowledge to get to the _____ being the first African American who really represents the vigorous red, clover white, and the midnight blue
For more info, go here.
Poetry Prodigies
Across from my house is a middle school full of eager young minds. A couple of days ago, I learned that those eager young minds have some phenomenal teachers.
Lining the sidewalks outside of the school, there is student poetry written in chalk.
I think this is a brilliant idea. It builds student confidence in their work. It expands students' ideas of what school, classroom, and learning are. It challenges students to think about what art is. I just love the concept.
Of course, I took photos of this art installation. They will follow in posts of their own.
Kudos to the students and the teachers!
Lining the sidewalks outside of the school, there is student poetry written in chalk.
I think this is a brilliant idea. It builds student confidence in their work. It expands students' ideas of what school, classroom, and learning are. It challenges students to think about what art is. I just love the concept.
Of course, I took photos of this art installation. They will follow in posts of their own.
Kudos to the students and the teachers!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Nature Poets
Yesterday we read poetry to each other in class.
Emerson. Frost. Whitman. Sarton. Oliver. Booth. Wagoner. Mora. Silko. Harjo.
Today I'll share one with you:
Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
-David Wagoner
Emerson. Frost. Whitman. Sarton. Oliver. Booth. Wagoner. Mora. Silko. Harjo.
Today I'll share one with you:
Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
-David Wagoner
Thursday, March 26, 2009
To Sleep
And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.
~D.H. Lawrence
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.
~D.H. Lawrence
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Cry in the Night
I woke up this morning to a stuffy nose, sore throat and headache.
I got Mr. B&B out the door.
Then I slept pretty much all day.
5:30 P.M. I awoke.
Made dinner.
Hung out with Mr. B&B.
Did dishes.
Went to bed at 9:40.
11:00 P.M. A cry in the night.
Kitty cat cry.
I bolt out of bed to find her wild with her stuffed mouse.
Running away from me.
And now I am without a doubt.
Awake, but soon to be
chasing dreams.
I got Mr. B&B out the door.
Then I slept pretty much all day.
5:30 P.M. I awoke.
Made dinner.
Hung out with Mr. B&B.
Did dishes.
Went to bed at 9:40.
11:00 P.M. A cry in the night.
Kitty cat cry.
I bolt out of bed to find her wild with her stuffed mouse.
Running away from me.
And now I am without a doubt.
Awake, but soon to be
chasing dreams.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Longing for the Shore
Maybe what I am really longing for is summer. It was super sunny today which took the edge off the chill. I am not fooled. I know snow is on the way again this week.
Summer is a little more than five months away, but the shore is less than an hour from me. I count myself lucky. Mr. B&B and I are going to Cape Cod for Valentine's Weekend which I am so looking forward to!
In the name of longing for the shore, a poem I wrote in December:
Adrift
He wears the wind and the waves.
Sacrificing boat shoes to sunken ships is easy.
Released, weightless flesh turns spongy and swims in pools of infinite possibility.
The confines and contradictions of the land slumber in his hull.
That ship has sailed. What remains lay netted in seaweed sweaters.
Summer is a little more than five months away, but the shore is less than an hour from me. I count myself lucky. Mr. B&B and I are going to Cape Cod for Valentine's Weekend which I am so looking forward to!
In the name of longing for the shore, a poem I wrote in December:
Adrift
He wears the wind and the waves.
Sacrificing boat shoes to sunken ships is easy.
Released, weightless flesh turns spongy and swims in pools of infinite possibility.
The confines and contradictions of the land slumber in his hull.
That ship has sailed. What remains lay netted in seaweed sweaters.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Past Poetry
I have not been writing recently. Instead I have been sewing and crafting out of tangible materials. So, this morning I wandered through my "Alex - Writings" file on my computer and found this little, list'y' jewel written on January 3, 2006:
Words never fail
Sometimes babbling
Incoherent
Ranting
Rambling
Words never fail
To convey feeling
State of being
State of mind
Words always reveal
something of someone
to someone in
some way
Words never fail
In any language
In any context
In any time
They link us
To each other
To the world
To the past
To life
Words never fail
To go on
To go beyond
To go forward
To go to the root
Words never fail
to transcend
to transport
to translate
Words never fail
Timeless
Treasured
Sure and Strong
Powerful
And
Ever present
Words never fail
Words never fail
Sometimes babbling
Incoherent
Ranting
Rambling
Words never fail
To convey feeling
State of being
State of mind
Words always reveal
something of someone
to someone in
some way
Words never fail
In any language
In any context
In any time
They link us
To each other
To the world
To the past
To life
Words never fail
To go on
To go beyond
To go forward
To go to the root
Words never fail
to transcend
to transport
to translate
Words never fail
Timeless
Treasured
Sure and Strong
Powerful
And
Ever present
Words never fail
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #145 - Organic
Organic
Just letting things happen as they will
Naturally
unfolding
day by day
moment by moment
Feeling alive in the present
Relinquishing control
Giving in to the elements
Trusting all will grow and evolve
in time as intended
Easier said than done
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From the moment I knew I had met the man I would eventually marry, I was ready to have children. Six years later and one year into our marriage we are happy just the two of us. We talk about babies and agree we both want them, but our time frames are different. I say "come what may" and my husband says vaguely, "in a few years..."
Mr. B&B is a planner and always does things in proper order. High School, College, Master's, job, marriage, condo...oddly, I am not sure what the next step in his plan is. I fell in love with him partially because he is so grounded and always planning for the future.
I am a dreamer, a mottled leaf floating down the rambling river. High school, one year at one college, one year at another college, stint in human resources, job as law office receptionist in a small town and working my way up to legal secretary/paralegal at a Boston law firm, going back to college, getting married, moving in to the condo. I've lived in several different houses, a couple different states and a few different cities along the way. I'm still in school working toward that degree. I blog, write, photograph, sew, and paint when I am not in class or keeping up with the house work. Really, I guess, I am letting my life unfold organically and trying to pursue interesting opportunities as they enter my field of vision.
Mr. B&B and I generally balance one another out. When it comes to the baby thing, however, stalemate. In a sense, we are both saying, "some time soon", but each in a different sense. My "some time soon" includes relenting control and just letting nature take its course. His "some time soon" includes controlling the situation as much as possible until it is the "perfect time", whatever that means. I say there is no "perfect time" and no one goes into parenthood without fears and economic conditions are never exactly as one would like them to be. We have a roof over our heads. We have some semblance of stability. Most importantly, we have each other. Still, stalemate.
I think creating and birthing a baby is one of the most organic processes one can be a part of and, from what I've been told, well worth any potential pain. If the only thing I accomplished in life was being a wonderful wife and birthing beautiful babies and raising remarkable human beings, I would be blissfully happy. Throw in being able to pursue my writing/crafting/creative pursuits, too, and maybe a little volunteering here and there, and that would put me over the edge. However, creating, birthing, and raising takes two. Mr. B&B is the most important person in the world to me and I need to respect his feelings, too.
For now, we will keep communicating, see where it leads us, find our way to the answer organically.
Just letting things happen as they will
Naturally
unfolding
day by day
moment by moment
Feeling alive in the present
Relinquishing control
Giving in to the elements
Trusting all will grow and evolve
in time as intended
Easier said than done
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From the moment I knew I had met the man I would eventually marry, I was ready to have children. Six years later and one year into our marriage we are happy just the two of us. We talk about babies and agree we both want them, but our time frames are different. I say "come what may" and my husband says vaguely, "in a few years..."
Mr. B&B is a planner and always does things in proper order. High School, College, Master's, job, marriage, condo...oddly, I am not sure what the next step in his plan is. I fell in love with him partially because he is so grounded and always planning for the future.
I am a dreamer, a mottled leaf floating down the rambling river. High school, one year at one college, one year at another college, stint in human resources, job as law office receptionist in a small town and working my way up to legal secretary/paralegal at a Boston law firm, going back to college, getting married, moving in to the condo. I've lived in several different houses, a couple different states and a few different cities along the way. I'm still in school working toward that degree. I blog, write, photograph, sew, and paint when I am not in class or keeping up with the house work. Really, I guess, I am letting my life unfold organically and trying to pursue interesting opportunities as they enter my field of vision.
Mr. B&B and I generally balance one another out. When it comes to the baby thing, however, stalemate. In a sense, we are both saying, "some time soon", but each in a different sense. My "some time soon" includes relenting control and just letting nature take its course. His "some time soon" includes controlling the situation as much as possible until it is the "perfect time", whatever that means. I say there is no "perfect time" and no one goes into parenthood without fears and economic conditions are never exactly as one would like them to be. We have a roof over our heads. We have some semblance of stability. Most importantly, we have each other. Still, stalemate.
I think creating and birthing a baby is one of the most organic processes one can be a part of and, from what I've been told, well worth any potential pain. If the only thing I accomplished in life was being a wonderful wife and birthing beautiful babies and raising remarkable human beings, I would be blissfully happy. Throw in being able to pursue my writing/crafting/creative pursuits, too, and maybe a little volunteering here and there, and that would put me over the edge. However, creating, birthing, and raising takes two. Mr. B&B is the most important person in the world to me and I need to respect his feelings, too.
For now, we will keep communicating, see where it leads us, find our way to the answer organically.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Free Your Mind
and the rest will follow. So say En Vogue in this song on YouTube. Also a so-sayer and believer in such philosophy,my poetry professor.
On Thursday, during our one-on-one meeting, I asked my poetry professor what one thing I could do to improve my writing. She told me to free-write poetry every day. In her opinion, which I agree with, my biggest weakness is that I think too much when I am writing instead of freeing my mind to go where it wishes and just being the vehicle through which it flows. After looking through my notebook and realizing how often I cross things out and self-edit, Professor suggested I do all my free-writing on the computer so that I do not have the option of crossing out. She told me it is her belief that if I do that I will find at least two or three usable lines a day.
Today I took her advice and this was the result:
I think there might be a tiny nugget of truth in all this "free your mind" business...
On Thursday, during our one-on-one meeting, I asked my poetry professor what one thing I could do to improve my writing. She told me to free-write poetry every day. In her opinion, which I agree with, my biggest weakness is that I think too much when I am writing instead of freeing my mind to go where it wishes and just being the vehicle through which it flows. After looking through my notebook and realizing how often I cross things out and self-edit, Professor suggested I do all my free-writing on the computer so that I do not have the option of crossing out. She told me it is her belief that if I do that I will find at least two or three usable lines a day.
Today I took her advice and this was the result:
Morning tonight feels like waking up to broken glass of shattered window panes. French doors open to English men wearing tweed coats and smoking ciggies. Signs of forced entry lay shimmering in the grass all rainbowy with dew. Was it you coming to steal me away in the night? If you asked I might have gone. Gone from the relative safety of my existence to the windiness of yours. Possibility appeals to me in fleeting moments of temporary sanity. Brokenness is old hat, but there’s got to be something behind that. Walk through it and reach for the light of the lamppost glowing like the moon and stitch me up, lift me up, talk me out of it and in to you. Sleepless sounds of strength emerging as we’re converging verging on reckless. You open a book and fill up with wonder and tear it asunder. Under the words lies the truth. Eat up the inky stains and spit out the blank page to write it all anew. Few resist the urge to abandon truth for greatness. Greed is not in your verbiage. Invisible fingerprints dust the sills of broken windows seeking solace. Tonight morning is found on distant shores where we might have been and might be going, racing time, holding on to moments slipping along the seams of the globe out witting the light of lesser gods. Stars stretch languidly across your face as you become one, a celestial body among celestial bodies. Bodies are piling up, but souls are floating free suspended between truth and humanity. Flight is folly and you fancy me a fool, a high compliment from you. I lay above you and sink below wallowing in weightless wonderment over it and under it singing soundlessly watching the airwaves ripple into dawn. Over breakfast all appears unmatched apples and pears. Swiftly moving songbirds are singing outside and I let them in to feast on leftover bits of peanut butter toast. Out in the barn I sew with a needle in a haystack.
I think there might be a tiny nugget of truth in all this "free your mind" business...
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Farewell Fellow Poets
Poetry class came to an end last night. I already miss it. I miss giving and receiving feedback. I miss the unique voices. I miss the professor. I miss the teasing and the laughter. I just miss all of it and everyone.
Last night I gave everyone a tiny notebook. Inside each notebook was a personal note to each of them and my contact information. I hope they keep in touch.
Andrew, Carrie, Davy, Jan, Lucien, Sam... If you happen to visit my little corner of the blog world, don't be shy, leave me a little hello. Oh, and really, a big thank you to each of you for making this semester an amazing one for me. Each of you is an inspiration to me and I hope you keep in touch. I'll miss reading your work.
Nothing, but love, admiration, and respect <3
Last night I gave everyone a tiny notebook. Inside each notebook was a personal note to each of them and my contact information. I hope they keep in touch.
Andrew, Carrie, Davy, Jan, Lucien, Sam... If you happen to visit my little corner of the blog world, don't be shy, leave me a little hello. Oh, and really, a big thank you to each of you for making this semester an amazing one for me. Each of you is an inspiration to me and I hope you keep in touch. I'll miss reading your work.
Nothing, but love, admiration, and respect <3
Sunday, October 26, 2008
People, Places, and Things
People, places, and things evoke feelings. This is my latest poem, untitled as of yet:
The closet is a mishmash of jeans & suits and t-shirts.
Bookshelves boast Faulkner & Salinger & Updike.
Improper Bostonian, Newsweek, & The New Yorker
stake out territory on the coffee table.
Many layered.
A little messy.
The bed is made.
Wet towels dampen the black & white comforter.
Wrinkled clothes lay discarded in a heap.
Drawers are sorted.
Able to prioritize.
A little hurried.
The kitchen sparkles.
The fridge is full, but not to overflowing,
with leftovers of the homemade variety.
The dishwasher whirs.
A lone bowl on the counter, slick with milk,
indicates cereal for breakfast.
Responsible.
Spontaneous.
In all these rooms,
shades of humanity.
Photographs & Paintings,
Books & Journals,
Documenting Life.
I could live and love amongst these remnants.
I have struggled a lot with the last line. Originally I wrote, "I could live amongst these remnants and love this life." I then changed it to, "I could live here and love." Eventually I settled on "I could live and love amongst these remnants." Most interesting to me is how rearranging the same words or restructuring the same thoughts can change the meaning of the entire poem. Any thoughts or suggestions?
The closet is a mishmash of jeans & suits and t-shirts.
Bookshelves boast Faulkner & Salinger & Updike.
Improper Bostonian, Newsweek, & The New Yorker
stake out territory on the coffee table.
Many layered.
A little messy.
The bed is made.
Wet towels dampen the black & white comforter.
Wrinkled clothes lay discarded in a heap.
Drawers are sorted.
Able to prioritize.
A little hurried.
The kitchen sparkles.
The fridge is full, but not to overflowing,
with leftovers of the homemade variety.
The dishwasher whirs.
A lone bowl on the counter, slick with milk,
indicates cereal for breakfast.
Responsible.
Spontaneous.
In all these rooms,
shades of humanity.
Photographs & Paintings,
Books & Journals,
Documenting Life.
I could live and love amongst these remnants.
I have struggled a lot with the last line. Originally I wrote, "I could live amongst these remnants and love this life." I then changed it to, "I could live here and love." Eventually I settled on "I could live and love amongst these remnants." Most interesting to me is how rearranging the same words or restructuring the same thoughts can change the meaning of the entire poem. Any thoughts or suggestions?
Images and Inspiration
My poetry class discussed Claudia Rankin's work on Tuesday. She strategically places photographs on the page with her poetry. As an in class exercise we were asked to study a photograph of legs from the knee down standing around in a circle and write a poem based on the image. This is what I was able to create in the five or ten minutes we were allowed:
The Immovable Feet
What are they waiting for?
Loafers, pumps & sneakers gathered around
Still
What are they afraid of?
The unknown?
What they might step in?
We are all sullied.
What about the possibilities?
Awaken to them.
Start slowly toward them.
Tip toes lead to leaps and bounds.
Be not only a witness, but a participant,
Immovable Feet!
The Immovable Feet
What are they waiting for?
Loafers, pumps & sneakers gathered around
Still
What are they afraid of?
The unknown?
What they might step in?
We are all sullied.
What about the possibilities?
Awaken to them.
Start slowly toward them.
Tip toes lead to leaps and bounds.
Be not only a witness, but a participant,
Immovable Feet!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
James Tate
James Tate is a poet we studied in my poetry class last week. As an exercise, we used Tate's The Wrong Way Home as inspiration for a five minute writing exercise.
The fruits of my five minute labor:
All morning a kite flew toward the sun.
It tried to forget the stillness waiting below,
the basements and backseats in which it was stuck
passing time 'til others brought it to life,
whooping & hollering, unraveling its lines
running and whooping & hollering 'til the
wind ran out of their sails,
the kite barely hovering above the land
it would inevitably be dragged across,
bedraggled.
The kite was a frame of idealized images
that fade
with time,
a frame of reference
set free
to burn.
Amazing how much can be accomplished in five minutes. Let me know what you might accomplish in five minutes! So much possibility...
The fruits of my five minute labor:
All morning a kite flew toward the sun.
It tried to forget the stillness waiting below,
the basements and backseats in which it was stuck
passing time 'til others brought it to life,
whooping & hollering, unraveling its lines
running and whooping & hollering 'til the
wind ran out of their sails,
the kite barely hovering above the land
it would inevitably be dragged across,
bedraggled.
The kite was a frame of idealized images
that fade
with time,
a frame of reference
set free
to burn.
Amazing how much can be accomplished in five minutes. Let me know what you might accomplish in five minutes! So much possibility...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
