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Friday, 20 February 2015
Sunday, 28 August 2011
If you didn't already infer, I don't use this blog as much as I used to. Everything I post up is on my other blog on Tumblr. I realise that most of what I write will be lost under the crap and noise of something misappropriated as an enhanced-Twitter-feed but it's where most people are nowadays. Other writers are bound to find something.
I wouldn't rule out a return to this, though. Cheers.
I wouldn't rule out a return to this, though. Cheers.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Wonderful
It is daytime as he sits in his bedroom. His back sits against a wooden chair and his feet rest casually on the wood floor. A fan wobbles overhead at a third of full speed. Four lights are on, beaming their spotlights nowhere in particular. It's mild; too balmy for Spring weather, outside anyway. He lives in the warmth year-round. The room is a dark red, not quite mahogany but not vibrant either. A bed is before him, an amplifier flanks his left, the door is to his right. Shelves and a television loom above ground; his other guitars hang behind him.
An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.
The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.
He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.
It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.
The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.
Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.
An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.
The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.
He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.
It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.
The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.
Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
E standard, no capo
I sat outside in the dark blue-black evening after work, sitting on the edge of some green patio chair. My arms were cold, a baby burn across my forearm healing pink beneath the unattractive scabs and blisters. It wasn't cold enough to merit a complaint. My fingers stayed warm moving across an aging neck: one hand to take stabs at other men's music, the other flailing to make those strings sing. She'd been barren once. I dolled her up the night before, dressing her up in new threads draped across her body. I cleaned her head, her face now gleaming where once it had been dull. The same six earrings, three on each side, found their places in their familiar holes. She was a shining beauty despite the absence of the sun. Her voice resounded while I sang along on that dark stretch of architecture.
Beneath the cloudless sky, I looked to the stars. Those bright dots punctuated the night; I'd never seen so many shine so brightly. I sat in the dry air, her shape draped along my legs. Repeating the same pattern I'd periodically try my voice then find it could not stand in comparison to those of better men. It wouldn't matter; she'd lend her voice despite my failings. Often, I'd stop to look at the faraway shapes of people --perhaps lovers, perhaps strangers-- walking along the evening streets. I'd think and wonder if they heard us. If they did, I'd apologize outright for my ineptitude to sing those same old love songs... but they'd commend her for being so euphonically sweet.
We sat there for a good hour and traded the same songs to fill the vast expanse of air before us. If I had enough courage, I'd sing a song by a man to his love or one of blackbirds or one of a man, tears free in his eyes, misplaced in heaven. And when I knew my off-key melodies overstayed their welcome, she would take the night and make it her song. But when the air grew too harsh and the navy of the night crept on towards black, it was time to part ways. For all the hesitations, I found myself uncharacteristically direct in the goodbye. We walked on past the glass door and into a warmer, greener zone, young woods sweeping before us. She rested on the couch, neck propped on the arm-rest, body drooping awkwardly over the pillows.
The night was done; I walked away into a room of red highlighted by the monochrome black-on-black-on-black. I knew she'd find her rest in some other boy's room that night while I sunk away into my worlds of superheroes-turned-mayors and journalists-turned-proactive. I thought of all the ways I could've extended that hour. My mind raced itself into depression while I took in the colours-upon-inks-upon-pencils of the art in that fantasy world. Words didn't seem important.
But what was done was done; she sleeps in the cooler, yellower, room of a boy I know. She doesn't rest on a bed but hangs her head, as if in shame, while she dreams above the floor. He couldn't care less. And what am I left with but some worthless memory-turned-metaphor that, I know, will be seen as love lost. Oh, there were songs, of that there is no doubt, but how many people sat on that balcony that night in the chill of the night. And is that even plural?
I'm sitting here, hands warm and tapping at some careless keys, with an exercise in my expression --perhaps to rekindle some sort of lost literary love-- and some poor fuck will think I'm talking about the girl I've fallen for.
Beneath the cloudless sky, I looked to the stars. Those bright dots punctuated the night; I'd never seen so many shine so brightly. I sat in the dry air, her shape draped along my legs. Repeating the same pattern I'd periodically try my voice then find it could not stand in comparison to those of better men. It wouldn't matter; she'd lend her voice despite my failings. Often, I'd stop to look at the faraway shapes of people --perhaps lovers, perhaps strangers-- walking along the evening streets. I'd think and wonder if they heard us. If they did, I'd apologize outright for my ineptitude to sing those same old love songs... but they'd commend her for being so euphonically sweet.
We sat there for a good hour and traded the same songs to fill the vast expanse of air before us. If I had enough courage, I'd sing a song by a man to his love or one of blackbirds or one of a man, tears free in his eyes, misplaced in heaven. And when I knew my off-key melodies overstayed their welcome, she would take the night and make it her song. But when the air grew too harsh and the navy of the night crept on towards black, it was time to part ways. For all the hesitations, I found myself uncharacteristically direct in the goodbye. We walked on past the glass door and into a warmer, greener zone, young woods sweeping before us. She rested on the couch, neck propped on the arm-rest, body drooping awkwardly over the pillows.
The night was done; I walked away into a room of red highlighted by the monochrome black-on-black-on-black. I knew she'd find her rest in some other boy's room that night while I sunk away into my worlds of superheroes-turned-mayors and journalists-turned-proactive. I thought of all the ways I could've extended that hour. My mind raced itself into depression while I took in the colours-upon-inks-upon-pencils of the art in that fantasy world. Words didn't seem important.
But what was done was done; she sleeps in the cooler, yellower, room of a boy I know. She doesn't rest on a bed but hangs her head, as if in shame, while she dreams above the floor. He couldn't care less. And what am I left with but some worthless memory-turned-metaphor that, I know, will be seen as love lost. Oh, there were songs, of that there is no doubt, but how many people sat on that balcony that night in the chill of the night. And is that even plural?
I'm sitting here, hands warm and tapping at some careless keys, with an exercise in my expression --perhaps to rekindle some sort of lost literary love-- and some poor fuck will think I'm talking about the girl I've fallen for.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
And now for something completely different
So I was reading some of the back-issue comics I picked up for Romel since he's been filling the gaps in his collection. I don't usually read Spider-Man since I'm more of a DC guy but one of the character monologues really struck me. Say what you will about comics being a "lesser" literary form but some writers are just damn good. This is from The Sensational Spider-Man #41, written by J. Michael Straczynski and penciled by Joe Quesada; it's an exchange from an alternate, washed up Peter Parker to the regular Spider-Man (italics).
"So who're you?"Good words from Pete to, uh... Pete.
"Oh, well, I mainly work in software design and testing. Computer games mostly... first person shooters, space combat games, super hero stuff. Yeah, kind of fell into that right after high school."
"Well, that sounds like it must be kind of a fun job."
"You know why guys like me get into games like that? Because there's something missing. We look around at a world where there used to be a chance of being a hero, of being important... and it's just not there the way it used to be. You can't just pick up a gun and become a gunfighter, or go off and explore for a new world, or pull a sword out of a stone, or rescue a damsel in distress, or-- So we play games and we read books because the world we got isn't the world we thought we were supposed to get, the world we thought we'd been promised by somebody. Because things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. So we go someplace else."
"But those places don't really exist."
"Yeah, well, nothing's perfect, right? If I could do any of those things in real life, really be those things, a hero, somebody who could change the world, save lives-- I guess I'd be the happiest guy on Earth. I'd never ask for anything else. Wouldn't need anything else. I'd be grateful. Because the rest of the world never gets that chance."
Monday, 8 February 2010
38
My honest words are spent on ears that seem
To turn and turn away as seconds pass
From hours to days and silent weeks. I dream
Through clouded nights and look by twisted glass.
I should not hold my hopes too high or look
Too long into her eyes, whose gazes turn.
She walks her life in peace, between the crook
Of silence borne from speech. I do not learn
To hide enamored hopes. I sit and think:
If I had courage, strength, or wisdom here
I'd find her hand in spite of fear and drink
Away my fruitless thoughts with love found near.
But I know I will never find this joy;
Such is reserved for men, I am a boy.
To turn and turn away as seconds pass
From hours to days and silent weeks. I dream
Through clouded nights and look by twisted glass.
I should not hold my hopes too high or look
Too long into her eyes, whose gazes turn.
She walks her life in peace, between the crook
Of silence borne from speech. I do not learn
To hide enamored hopes. I sit and think:
If I had courage, strength, or wisdom here
I'd find her hand in spite of fear and drink
Away my fruitless thoughts with love found near.
But I know I will never find this joy;
Such is reserved for men, I am a boy.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
37
A skirting dusk lies fallow 'twixt my feet.
I see no nighttime eyes to scrutinize
My love. Or, least, they gaze in wait. How neat
The foreign ground, pecked through with cautious eyes.
I think her sun is fading from my sight.
But... I'd be wronged to write these thoughts as fact;
One hand in mine, her other to the night,
While both we play to tunes of her skilled tact.
I'd fall again, again, and evermore.
To speak, to move; the two are intertwined
Yet distant still as waves that meet the shore.
I stride sans mind in search of hope to find.
I know I care; that much is certain here,
But to what end? To what committed fear?
I see no nighttime eyes to scrutinize
My love. Or, least, they gaze in wait. How neat
The foreign ground, pecked through with cautious eyes.
I think her sun is fading from my sight.
But... I'd be wronged to write these thoughts as fact;
One hand in mine, her other to the night,
While both we play to tunes of her skilled tact.
I'd fall again, again, and evermore.
To speak, to move; the two are intertwined
Yet distant still as waves that meet the shore.
I stride sans mind in search of hope to find.
I know I care; that much is certain here,
But to what end? To what committed fear?
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
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
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
Sunday, 5 July 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
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
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.)
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.)
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.)
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.)
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.)
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.)
"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.)
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.)
Bataan
They came from the land of the rising sun,
Commanders with sword and guardsmen with gun.
As if from he sea, they rose from the coasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
We fell from our watches, our vigilance high,
We saw our own brothers wither and die.
As they fall, friends called out to their heavenly hosts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
The Emperor's men came and stood, poised to strike,
While elsewhere, our comrades would fall to the Reich.
And the nations did cry as we fell from our posts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
Still, King let us to die and waved his white flag.
He handed us over in suit and in rag.
My city did fall with strange soldiers engrossed.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
So they took us to march from south to the north.
The diseased and the dying were all put forth,
The walking wounded under Japanese boasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
And they offered no quarter to brown or to white,
And the kindest of mercies: reprieve in the night.
And we marched in the sun, in the field, on the coasts;
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
We died on that highway, carved cruel in the dirt,
The thoughts of our lovers our only comfort.
And we walked on for freedom, a right foremost.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
Now we are but men lost forever in time,
Our story told in pricture, word, and in rhyme.
Tell of our tale, the men who marched from our posts.
Say, "As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts."
January 11, 2008, Writing 12
(The focus was to have a line, perhaps unifying, that repeated throughout the poem. I wrote of the Bataan Death March.)
Commanders with sword and guardsmen with gun.
As if from he sea, they rose from the coasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
We fell from our watches, our vigilance high,
We saw our own brothers wither and die.
As they fall, friends called out to their heavenly hosts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
The Emperor's men came and stood, poised to strike,
While elsewhere, our comrades would fall to the Reich.
And the nations did cry as we fell from our posts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
Still, King let us to die and waved his white flag.
He handed us over in suit and in rag.
My city did fall with strange soldiers engrossed.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
So they took us to march from south to the north.
The diseased and the dying were all put forth,
The walking wounded under Japanese boasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
And they offered no quarter to brown or to white,
And the kindest of mercies: reprieve in the night.
And we marched in the sun, in the field, on the coasts;
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
We died on that highway, carved cruel in the dirt,
The thoughts of our lovers our only comfort.
And we walked on for freedom, a right foremost.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.
Now we are but men lost forever in time,
Our story told in pricture, word, and in rhyme.
Tell of our tale, the men who marched from our posts.
Say, "As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts."
January 11, 2008, Writing 12
(The focus was to have a line, perhaps unifying, that repeated throughout the poem. I wrote of the Bataan Death March.)
Anarchy
A man in mask to set the fiery stage
Runs along the ground by which they laid it.
He seeks to usher in a freedom age
And burn the stones, to lay them in the pit.
Once did her eyes burn with the light of stars;
Her beauty overflowed amongst the crowd.
Now they are blind, scratched out with jealous scars;
Now she lies used. No longer is she proud.
He bids her adieu, scorn in his last kiss.
The flames are lit for a show triumphant
While truths of victory quietly hiss.
Stones will fall in this oppression ancient.
As he watches the flames in full blossom
He stares in at at tomorrow's freedom.
December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(We were each to come up with a title to a poem and subsequently give it away to another student in the class. We would then write a poem to the title.)
Runs along the ground by which they laid it.
He seeks to usher in a freedom age
And burn the stones, to lay them in the pit.
Once did her eyes burn with the light of stars;
Her beauty overflowed amongst the crowd.
Now they are blind, scratched out with jealous scars;
Now she lies used. No longer is she proud.
He bids her adieu, scorn in his last kiss.
The flames are lit for a show triumphant
While truths of victory quietly hiss.
Stones will fall in this oppression ancient.
As he watches the flames in full blossom
He stares in at at tomorrow's freedom.
December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(We were each to come up with a title to a poem and subsequently give it away to another student in the class. We would then write a poem to the title.)
Envy
I envy,
Though not of
the way they move so
gracefully and
serence
while ours are so
clumsy and
discomposed.
I envy,
Though not of
their compliments to each other. They are
silent and in
perfect understanding
while ours are
squabbles and
struggles.
I envy,
Though not of
their thoughts, always
perfect and in
unison
while ours are always
lacking and in
disarray.
I envy
That they were once us but
No longer.
December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(The assignment was to write a poem in the style of our favourite poem. At the time, mine was Envy by Yevgeny Yevtushenko.)
Though not of
the way they move so
gracefully and
serence
while ours are so
clumsy and
discomposed.
I envy,
Though not of
their compliments to each other. They are
silent and in
perfect understanding
while ours are
squabbles and
struggles.
I envy,
Though not of
their thoughts, always
perfect and in
unison
while ours are always
lacking and in
disarray.
I envy
That they were once us but
No longer.
December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(The assignment was to write a poem in the style of our favourite poem. At the time, mine was Envy by Yevgeny Yevtushenko.)
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