To a Cousin Never Known

If I could trade a thousand lives just for
Another day to know your hidden face
Then, hesitation gone, I would. You'd pace
Among the living fields and endless shore.
Between the raving winds and azure roar
I'd hear your quiet words. You'd sing in case
I could not see. I'd feel a cousin's grace.
Then, in that blink of time, I'd know you more.
But now the life has faded from your heart;
I cannot see the face I never knew
Nor walk passed time to mend this careless wrong.
I know the mourners march a world apart
And I, one living guilt, will think of you;
There was no fanfare for your passing song.

Requiescat in pace

July 5, 2009

There is, placed upon a black shelf, a book that I hold quite dear. (Now, let's not say to what extent I hold it close; rather, let us believe that there is a level of endearment here.) On that shelf lay other memorabilia of years past: some tools for my instruments, some documents of the past year, some tools that would have been used for art. None of these pieces have been used in quite some time. In fact, I have not taken to my instruments in quite some time nor have I perused my documents as I once did. The art supplies--pencils in black and in colour--are the youngest of these, unused, neglected, and not exposed to the reaches of the outside world.

At this moment, I have taken to my thoughts and set them to this medium. In front of me wafts the aroma of tea; it is orange pekoe and the boiled water has just been heated. Prior to this writing, I have been reading a novel by a man whose initials are E.H.. He wrote in short, terse sentences. Where he would write. "I drink my tea. It is fresh," I would take it upon myself to write what lays before you now. Now, his writing is not entirely what motivated me to take to prose. While his words have inspired me, at the very least, to take to writing in full sentences they are not the central impetus.

Readers, as you may be acquainted with already, you'll find that I have been writing in, as they would say, "poetic" verses. Now, I can't be one to judge these pieces as good or lasting in the impression of others. (If had the input of my readers, I could much better gauge the skill of my writing.) It has occurred to me that I have not taken to prose writing, that is, the writing of complete thoughts borne by complete sentences. Now, while my thoughts in poetry have been expressed through complete sentences, they would have been chained by rhyme, rhythm, and breaks of lines.

I have grown tired of this style of writing for the time being. Of course, it is not born from out of my overbearing acquaintance of sonnets. Rather, it is for another style. Let it be known that I am writing a poem called "The Sketchbook", tentatively titled. I had started it on June 18 and worked on it sporadically for a few days. I have not, however, touched it since the end of June. Now, you can say that I am neglecting the art of poetry through this expository piece of prose. While that is true, there is nothing, I feel, that I should owe to anybody by publishing pieces. Call it a bitter resentment but if I should not receive feedback for my writings, to whom do I owe them? For lack of others' voices, I owe these pieces to myself and, as such, am in no rush to continue writing.

Now, you will say that you are fine with this and I see no objection. I have no desire to set myself to some sort of schedule and write on the seemingly mundane. For anybody who is hurt by this admission, and this should be nobody at all, I offer my apologies.

Let us get back to the sketchbook that lies upon a shelf. Hovering over my head, she seems as a monument to some old event, some bygone era. The implements by her, unopened pencils at the forefront, are quiet for a reason. On the sketchbook's cover is the image of art. (I cannot recall what it is now; I have not gazed upon it in some time.) There is a sea of black that bookends the image, underneath that is red. That image is nobody's; it is what is beneath that cover which paralyses my artistic spark. Her pages are empty, still white or cream (I cannot remember) and I have done nothing to free my mind upon the canvases.

I think she'll sit idle until I have rid myself of this artistic paralysis, as I have called it. Perhaps it will be free when I have finished that, perhaps final, poem. (It seems as though a good way to justify my actions.)

Pay no attention to my ramblings. I've set myself to write and I think it would be quite the waste to lose a moment of inspiration.

To _______, A Sonnet

When we were strangers, not yet known or met,
I could not know the passions of your eyes
Nor you my rhyme, or how I'd learn to set
My art to match the beauty of your sighs.
When we were distant, I could never know
The boundless hazel of your rolling locks
Nor could your glowing smile flame my heart's glow.
Your heart would never know my quiet knocks.
But now I hope we walk, in dusk, and see
That tower, white, against this hostile sky,
Against the flow'ring red my words will be
Those hundred things to melt with your reply.
I hope, and pray, you see that sudden flower
And know what's reckoned from this quiet hour.

May 27, 2009

Epitaph

Here lies a mind in quiet rest. The end
Called me to meet th' eternal Trinity.
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend.

I lived in hope that noble men might end
Our pains. Know this is not eternity;
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

I bear no grudge nor did I waste or spend
My love. Though this seems not a victory,
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend.

You who remain, heed this and move to mend
While you and time are in fraternity.
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

Proclaim your lives, let blazing hearts ascend
To God, the endless good paternity.
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend;
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

March 11, 2009, English 12
(After reading Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", we were to write a villanelle.)

Trial Separation

A crack to split that bleeding heart in two,
Vain tears to try and win back what was lost,
Hoarse voice that croaks the schism, born anew
When love could not continue; they died. Tossed
Away to chide the past that they had shared,
Dejected love takes home within a hearse.
It drives on lies proclaimed: to say they cared
Where empty words flew "true", but nothing worse.
There is no shrive, no absolution here.
They stand apart, hell bent to see the one
Who they had loved in pain. There is no fear
Save for the one that they might come undone.
A tragedy, this is, to see that split;
No promise now t' eternally commit.

March 6, 2009, English 12
(We were told to write "the saddest poem you can write", or at least try.)

A Dream

Somewhere, someone is writing a poem
Upon a sheet that never felt the touch
Of loving ink and words that flow and roam,
Which draw a world that never loves so much.
And in his thoughts a world so diff'rent from
The vast expanse that colder shoulders share.
And in his dreams a quiet, beating drum
That bleeds the memories through hostile air.
On that white sheet a blue invades a calm
And quiet world, to bleed his dreams that he
Can never share, lest he give up his psalm,
To let his dreams recede where they're not free.
But he recoils and draws away his hand;
Dreams die in lies before they're in this land.

March 4, 2009, English 12
(We were all given the line "Somewhere, someone is writing a poem" to start our poems.)

The Invader

Laid dead upon the whitest plain he moves
Past death in its abusive, violent state.
A cracking, bubbling mass, this reject proves
His strength t' assault this open, welcome gate.
He stabs me first, a yellow knife to tear
My nostrils, weak t' accept with faith this strange
And foreign thing. A bleeding sense of fear
Invades my mind when still I stand in range.
I, paralyzed with hate, can never act
Against this stench that shakes my very core,
Nor can I give th' offence; I see, in fact,
That paradox of thing'd amuse me more.
For as it stands this beast deserves to live:
A yellow strain that shares more than I give.

March 2, 2009, English 12
(We were each given some concoction to perceive using any of our five senses. I received a yellow dish that smelled unpleasant.)

To _______, A Sonnet

Behind this one, a mind so vast and free
Whose hazel hair lies set upon that green
With curls on curls that flow on endlessly,
A smile so sharp to cut the air. Between
This day and that which is to come in time
Sits nothing but a love of friendship bound
By common words of verse and rhymes sublime
That came about in haste when they were found.
And while these words may seem to stand in love,
As such the ones that live in unrequite,
They fly beyond those petty thoughts, a dove
Set free to bridge those minds in quick delight.
And though I never knew her soul before,
I feel as though I know it all the more.

February 26, 2009, English 12
(We were assigned classmates to write a love poem to. I was assigned a fellow writer and claimed the love of friendship.)

In a Lover's View

I would say
"your love for me is a flame
burning with the intensity of
one thousand burning suns,"
but then I would say
it were too cliche and think it over.

I would say
"you love for me is a candle
burning in the night, effortlessly,
for all the world to see,"
but then I would say
a candle could not bear magnificence to you.

I would say
"your love for me is a light
leading me on in the darkness,
when no other would,"
but then I would say
a light could not shine as bright as your love.

I would say
"your love for me is an inferno
blazing with the intensity of
the fires of hell,"
but then I would say
your beauty and hell could never mingle.

I would say
"your love for me is a flare,
finding me when
I am lost in the world,"
but then I would say
you need no means to find me.

I would say
"your love for me is a
crimson flash of
everlasting beauty
shining in the darkness
when nothing else can,"
but then I would say
my words would do your love no justice.

So I will say:
"Your love for me is like a truck."

January 16, 2008, Writing 12
(The aim for these poems was to create cheesy love poems.)

The Sound of Water

Nothing
first, as the droplets gather,
condensing and then a slight
Grumbling
as they start to meet warmth.
cold brothers meeting affection
to become lukewarm, as if platonic. a
KRAK-A-BOOM
now as the light splits the sky.
Shrieking
now as the heat splits the tree
and sets it aflame,
helplessly standing a mile below.
and now they fall, first in a slight
Tick-tick-tick-tock
to
Bellow
and
Screech
and
Scream,
as if to say the blitzkrieg is coming.
and then a torrent comes from the heavens
Roaring
and then
Rolling.
she was a
Whisper
but now she is a
Shout.

January 13, 2008, Writing 12
(We were each given a sense to perceive water by. I was to write on perception by hearing.)