| Date: | 2005-02-11 12:56 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  nervous |
Okay. Since this journal is being opened up (I was told that it was the proper step in my development as an English Major) let me just preface this with a few words.
This intro is staying up (note the date) so scroll down for new updates.
I am NOT a poet. I have no aspiration to be. If I could pick any talent I would want to have, it would be poetry, but I accept the fact that that is not in my future.
However, sometimes I can't control what I write. Sometimes I just need to write something, and instead of a prose piece, poetry comes out.
As the journal continues to get updated you will see a lot more written pieces; I intend to put all my original pieces in here for feedback and critiques. I want to be a writer; it's kinda hard to do that if I don't allow anyone to see what I write.
So. Here goes. be cruel and mean if that's what my pieces deserve, be nice if that's how you feel. :) I am no stranger to flames, so burn it up. And thank you everyone who HAS seen this page and has encouraged me.
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| Date: | 2003-05-12 13:40 |
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Fragment is as follows:
We were shattered little girls.
Yes, that's it. And it's cliched and stupid. It came into my head late one night, because I was thinking about high school and how so many of us were broken. And how we held tight to every opinion and guarded it like it was our first born - we'd cut each other down before we'd compromise. We were carving out spaces for ourselves, and it shattered us. Our world view consisted of home, work and school.
Shattered little girls.
Because that's all we were, y'know? Little girls in a brand new world. And then the whole world fell apart and we realized that there was more to life, so we mended ourselves and shook hands and moved on.
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Winters in Boston are tough.
They aren't really pretty, you know - not
in that idyllic mid-western way, sparkling
Snow and sleigh rides and red cheeks.
Here, the snow gets dirty three minutes
after it's virgin fall, - lonely like a virgin's fall...
And a supreme emptiness- the salt covered T,
the barren landscape, the cold and raw.
But that toughness is beautiful. Hardy people
Who survive the salty crust and monochrome.
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| Date: | 2002-12-01 02:36 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: | anxious |
Old ladies, the maples and oaks gather their faded dresses close-
They crackle and creak in the wind, but the fabric hangs on steadily...
and they whisper through their branches about the inelegant pines
With one bare, scandalous leg and a chorus girl skirt pulled up to the sky
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| Date: | 2002-08-06 16:38 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  creative |
I am "Cross-training my brain" as Jeremy and my sister have so charmingly put it.
This past weekend I - GASP - learned three chords. Well you may laugh, but I'm musically illiterate. I couldn't play a note, much less a chord! (And those no understatement. I tried to play a note and I would press the string wrong and whoo was it not a pretty sound.) Jeremy, being the kind boy he is, taught me a) how to tune the guitar to itself, b) how to read tabs and C) the chords d, e, and g. E being nearly impossible for some one with my level of skill (which is, as I've said before, naught.)
I also have undertaken a bit of an ambitious project; namely I am learning to draw. Self teaching, mind you. But the fact of the matter is, I LIKE to draw. I am no artist - my stick figures are often lopsided and have caved in heads - but I like it! So, I am drawing a "Series." Say it with me kids, a "Series." (Catch the python overtones, huh huh didya?)
The series is based on songs written by "They Might be Giants." Each illustration will have several drafts until I am satisfied. . . or until I get sick of drawing, say, triangle man over and over again.
Cross training for the brain, indeed!
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| Date: | 2002-05-03 22:55 |
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| Mood: |  ecstatic |
Can we just stop and think for just one second?
The red sox,
. . .
The BOSTON Red Sox
. . .
The team who hasn't won a world series since 19...18?
....
IS THE BEST TEAM IN BASEBALL right now.
That would be 18 and 8
and a .708 average!
The closest team is in the AL west, Seattle, with a 20 and 9 (.690)!
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"When you are alone you are the cat you are the phone you are an animal. The words I'm saying now mean nothing more than meow to an animal. Wake up and smell the cat food in your bank account, but don't try and stop the tail that wags the hound."
Geek rock RULES!
I'm in the mood for a little They Might Be Giants. Apollo 18, to be specific. But of course, I've been missing that cd for months now. Disappointing. I love that cd! It's got all the good songs- SPIDER, dig my grave, i palindrome i, The guitar...
Speaking of TMBG, who's going to be home MAy 25th? Wanna go to riverfest? (Not the WBCN one, the River - 93.7- one.) Lots and lots of people. Some pretty good bands (Susanne Vega) but MOST IMPORTANTLY, They might be Giants, starting the show off at 5pm. IT's FREE, at the hatchshell. We'd have to get there at about 3 if we wanted to be within site of teh stage. It might be nice to go at like 12 with a picnic and spread out on the grass.
SaraH, I know I can rope you in. How about Jenna, Elaine, Katie, Christa?! It'll be a party!! :-D I'm willing to bet terry and sarah will go. TMBG puts on a great free show. (Especially when they had the gigantic puppet heads)!
COME! :-)
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| Date: | 2002-05-01 00:51 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: | odd |
Only a poet can make Muriel sound pretty
Reworking of a fragment:
The gentleness of
10...
9...
8...
7...
counting beads of water on a wall of mirrors
and trying to avoid looking at the face
that insistantly counts the drops
7....
8....
9...
10....
on the other side of the glass.
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| Date: | 2002-04-30 16:44 |
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| Security: | Public |
The quiet gentle of
10...9....8.....7
counting
.
.
.
beads of water
on a mirror
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| Date: | 2002-04-25 20:26 |
| Subject: | |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  uncomfortable |
This is why I cannot really write poetry.
A real poem, according to my poetry teacher Dr. Leslie
1. The poem has something to say which matters to both the writer and to the reader. Poems are the most concise form of writing, but that is no excuse for flippant, insipid or otherwise unambitious work. Each poem should give the reader something. a poem which only means something to the poet is a failed poem.
2. The poem incorporates the aspects of poetic theory and structure ewe discuss in class. It reveals that the writer has revised it many times, and thought about how what is being said serves the poem. Poem is not spontaneous, though it might appear to be when we read it.
3. The poem includes innovative and revealing metaphors. Metaphor is the heart of poetry, and finding metaphors which make a poem mean more, and do not simply decorate the poem, is the most important task we face. At no time should a metaphor make a poem a riddle or a puzzle for the reader to solve. Metaphors make things more understandable.
4. The poem does not contain predictable or cliche phrases. Such worn-out passages are inexcusable in a poem. The poet has attempted to write about something which matters in a refreshing and new way. Cliches reveal that the poet has been lazy, relying on simply saying what others have said.
5. The poem does not simply express the poet's emotion. Poetry is not therapy or an opportunity for the poet to express vague, though intense, emotion. Likewise, a poem should not rely on melodrama or sentimentality, the cheapest of emotional triggers.
6. The poem contains no inadvertent grammatical, typographical or spelling errors. Such concise pieces of writing should be exact. Pay attention to details.
(Makes me think actually of e.e. cummings: "the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you"...he broke these rules, at least a little. Then again, he was a genius and a true poet, so I suppose he is allowed.)
At any rate, I break rules 1,2,3,and 5. Horribly.
It's a good thing I never entertained any real thoughts of being a poet. I hope I am a better writer than I am that.
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Last night, I felt as if I was travelling
On the most treacherous walk-
3 hours of poetry analysis will do that to you
my brain prompted
in a cold and flourescent classroom.
whenever I leave, i feel surreal, like I ...
had lost something of myself between the lines
and the smell of the binder
and the buzz of the voices.
so when I walk back, I am walking on faith between
puzzled circles of light
cast by street lights where there is no street.
between them, there is absolute darkness, and
I walk only knowing that there WILL be ground beneath my feet
And terrified that there may be nothing.
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She never learned the easy grace of being a human being
the sway and tuck of a wrist against a hip
Of shoulders that twist to waist bones
and ribs
In fluid muscle movements
She stands hunched with muscles
that move like tectonic plates
grating over one each other
and a unsightly gain of movement
is the only result.
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These, SaraH, are from the beautiful journal you gave me.
"Memories"
City sighting- summer nights in the city infuse it with a coziness, happiness- almost carnival air- that excites and comforts. Of course, the memory of past summers spent enjoying evenings fill the night like restless dreams. They belong to the waking, not the dreaming. Tonight a round, reddish moon rises over everything. Although it is impossible to do with city lights negating any celestial brilliance, this moon cast a golden glow on the dreaming city, and made the sometimes dingy building look more breathtaking than a European Capital.
"Amusement
Comic- the sight of the large man wedged against the trains small back doorway, wearing a pair of pants a little too tight at the top and somewhat absurdly long and wide through the bottom (the reverse being true of his top_ attempting to finish a crossword as the rain bumps up and down, and his legs bounce up and down, making his pants balloon, clownlike, and his hands bounce up and down and the pen bounces up and down, all over the paper. He looks around, tsking with impatience at the thought-less-ness of the train. His moustache pulls down in annoyance as he bares his large front teeth...
They had forecasted rain for long before the storm hit. The oppressive hear and shimmery atmosphere predicted a thunderstorm of violent proportions. A strong wind blew the black clouds in, and night fell. As we sat in the car, we realized night was early, and the streetlamp's light did little against the overpowering black. Finally the storm broke with deluges of rain and silence. Strange how a rain storm can silence all other regular noises of summer nights. Then suddenly without the customary warning roar of thunder, forked lightening splits the night, disappearing just as suddenly and leaving just the wet dripping noises of curtains of rain waving through the night.
Up in airplanes things seem so much more simple. there is nothing but lonely sunshine, dangerous clouds, and far far below, ground. Tiny towns composed of middlin' cities...farms with acres of land that seem no more than the breadth of a hand...
It's all about perspective. From up here in the angel blue sky, its easy to see how small the world really is.
There us no way to describe clouds that hasn't been used before...whipped cream, feather pillows, down blankets, snow...but I can imagine touching the...the unbelievable cold, the taste of them, like a million snowflakes connected only by the thinnest of bonds.
The highways of California are worlds away from the highways of the east. Wide and flat, they meander slowly through infinite spaces...last night a fog rose that obscured the line between hill and sky, yet wasn't quite thick enough to cover the lights of homes, so entire towns seemed to be castles in the sky, floating on nothing but their own intent.
My heart aches with the amount of beauty around me. in a world that is slowly dying from human influence, beauty is giving a last horrible and terrific shout, exploding everywhere.
In cities, beauty emerges in rhythmic and lulling patterns. the jackhammer beating out the bass of the cities song, the traffic providing the melody, and the people themselves singing the harmony.
In New York, the sidewalks shimmer at night, the buildings flash with razzle dazzle, the people form a massive painting created by all the masters at once: Renoir, Picasso, Van Gogh, Da Vinci...
In Boston the classic style gently reflects itself onto the passerbys..the gardens and houses and streets seem narrow and safe but underneath the throb of the underground reveals itself in rainbow dreams...
Of course, nature is beautiful...the hawk flying vertically up, amazing with its wingspread...tiny streams by the roadside surprise themselves in gurgling waterfalls, yellow forests form picture poems in the sunlight.
I dream in beauty.
Fall nights seem to emerge out of nowhere. One night summer is still singing itself to sleep and the next, fall cries out to save itself. Fall days rejoice but the season becomes melancholy at night, reviewing its glory days and mourning the winter ahead. Lights in summer blend in with a twilight that doesn't want to fade, but in the fall they challenge the dark, fighting frantically with their small orbs of light...maybe fall drowns in memories that manifest themselves through darkness, too.
Melancholy on a Wednesday, when fall returned to school. The leaves- small and yellow- let go in the persistent wind, twisting down like glitter. .. I am haunted by what ifs.
these are probably what I will be proudest of, ever.
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Eek. Something just fell off my desk.
Okay...apparently I am in a very weird mood and now may not be the best time to be writing this, but hell. I can be serious and silly all at once, because I AM a walking contradiction!
So. One of the things I believe in most firmly is the power of music. Be it to heal, to hurt, to comfort, to rile up, to lift or to shove. Music is really strong.
Like poetry, I am confused about where the strength comes. You may say, easily as not, it comes from the power of the instrumentation blended with the voice- rhythm, harmony, melody. "Yes, yes, delightful delightful. But the only important thing these days is rhythm and melody, rhythm and melody." Okay. I can refute that or I can strengthen that.
To begin with the negative:But then what about simple, sung songs? What about primitive music? What about gregorian chants, when there was no musical sophistication, just the elongation of a word and a rhythm?
With that said, what is it about music that makes it so powerful? What is it about singing "It's one love, one life, when it's one need in the night. We're one, but we're not the same. We get to carry each other, carry each other" that makes it more powerful than a)simply saying it, or b) (to recap my poetry argument) saying "We're one all together, we all share one common love and one common life, with the same needs. We're all equal, but we aren't the same, and sometimes we get the honor of helping another person." The message is the same.
I took a break when writing this and it ended up coming out like crap, but it was the seed of a thought. In other words, a nothing. :-D
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| Date: | 2002-03-04 15:47 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  sleepy |
some of these are quite horrible, and some are quite old. The worst are the oldest, so at least you can see a progression, yah?
"Train"
Watch shuttered eyes and blank stares
And sleep to the rocket rhythm of sparkling wheels,
Step one, step two out into a virtual wind tunnel
Into an above ground train
Of a trillion
different
People.
One of the oldest I'll ever be willing to post. Gawd, it sucked! :)
"Fragments"
Today: I see the world in fragments,
And hear it in two second intervals:
A hand on a guitar in a cd booklet,
"Happens everyday"
The nose prints of a lonely cat on a dirty windowpane
Something I must clean...
A picture frame
The glass is long broken
But the picture itself is stained with tears...
(that won't seem to stop falling-
Am I an endless cloud, rain goddess,
daughter of the crying moon and shunned by a faux sun?
Or am I just confusing normal life with something special for ME...)
"First Time"
For the first time in forever,
I took notice of an ambulance as it roared
Screamed
Desperate
For the desperate.
In an unknown ambulance,
All unknown sufferers are held.
Last summer, I would walk to the bus stop at the top of Jenna's street. We'd catch the bus together on our way into work. One morning I was sitting there- it was such an evil feeling day- and an ambulance passed me. Mind you, I live maybe two minutes from the hospital, ambulances are hardly rare things. In fact, they have to turn their siren on right beside me to even scare me. But this one - it was so sad. And I didn't know why...
"Ana Maria Matute"
And who was she, that this book is so intriguing-
Queen, surely,
But olividado -
forgotten.
And why was she forgotten?
What was her fate?
Incomplete, was part of a larger entry in my train book, but was the only piece of poetry within it
"Black window"
For a moment, I didn't know
Exactly where on the trip I was-
Broadway? Andrew?
The words were tangible,
weaving through the speed black outside
And the not solid crush of bodies inside
The air of the makeshift fan -
The woman next to me-
broke my reverie.
"Driving Day"
It is a driving day today-
warm, still air,
sun and clouds to produce patterns, interchangeable shadows,
A feeling the despite a grey awakening,
And a half hour spent in tears
Things may be okay.
And it is a time,
A moment
A photograph
And a still
free fall of sunlight
That promises fine days to come
New comfort.
No reality, no basis.
But dreamy weavings of summer and breeze
and gold and no silver to temper the arrangement.
With a little polish, I might accept that one- there are a few horrible lines, but it has a good heart
"Vermeer, Van deMeer"
He painted light- something I can't picture
The smooth brushless clearness of light
Which is not something you can paint
Which is clearly an untruth, for he did.
But how? Is it a matter of different shades of colors
Was it yellow? gold? white?
brush strokes in dust motes.
I have never seen the works
but heard the silky whispering of his name
Vermeer, Van derMeer- velvet, silky lush.
How does one paint the light?
I really must find something out about vermeer.
"Sometimes the midnight..."
Sometimes Central Square wakes up from a midnight glittery dream
And longs to be something new.
She shakes of the smog,
Pulls up her skirts and
Does a swift spit and polish
on the poor, homeless
and forlorn.
Hums to herself and her people
Whooshes a brisk breeze along the street
And plays at being a grand european city.
I love my central square.
"Fever Dreams"
It was a night for ill dreams-
fever dreams feeding on no fever.
I could not sleep - heard the baying dogs, and
sat
in front of the chimania,
burning one small piece of wood that crackled-
and I remembered, earlier: "the moon is beautiful tonight."
"It's gonna get covered by a big cloud- it's funny how it shines through clouds-"
"only some.
"The clouds make it look like the stars are moving. eerie."
The last thing you would expect- stars to move
and
looking into the night sky is looking into the past
and
then the dreams of a movie-trap mansion, full of booby traps
14, I found, 14 of 18. And if this was a horror-
What would I find behind me?
Waking I found a brother with bad dreams, next.
The grim reaper standing behind his eyelids, and silence of the night.
Dogs bayed again (dogs? so few. Maybe coyotes.)
A popular reference to someone dying, dogs crying...
And on the sunny trip home nightmares banished,
Roadkill, little deformed dots on the roadside- as if placed, as if a sign.
Placed, as a warning.
The clouds were gone, but so was the moon.
Leaving only old stars, long dead, in it's place.
"Stale Beer?"
IT smelled, in an instant, of 'going out'-
of liquor and smoke, and of sweat and fog
Of college students pounding against each other, groping each other
In flashing lights- (alarm, alarm?)
Bodies writhing against a mirror already smoky with condensation
Feet kicking glass bottles, lining the dance floor, broken in places
Do they feel a kinship?
Seedy bars, fake ids, fights and flight-
And it smelled in an instant of going out.
"Ten seconds of reflection before central sq. stop"
In the mornings, there is no inspiration for me.
The train is business like, quiet.
Momentary lapses- train doors open-
guitar, stipe-ish voice
"space oddity"
The notes chased the train a few spaces, then fell.
They could not survive in the dark.
"Westward"
"Tell me, which direction is west?"
"That way?"
"See that blue sky over there? That's West.
The blue sky is coming towards us, and when it gets here,
it's gonna be a cold day, boy."
later
"Look at the sunset!
The colors on the water!"
But I didn't. The colors? I had seen them all. The ones
In my near sleep mind were far more interesting.
As I drifted toward sleep, I wondered if I were dying - I was heading
for a light that grew bright, and I was so tired-
I welcomed it's arrival.
NOT a suicide poem. I was just so curiously detached as I fell asleep, and the thought occurred to me, is all, that there was a light there...I didn't THINK i was dying...
"Aero"
There were no airplanes flying overhead tonight.
The stars put themselves out till only a few were left- shining-
I wondered if the others were up there, hiding-
But I was too heartbroken to look..
There was no noise in the air tonight.
Just the silence that lies under "incidental" noises
And the sounds of a few crickets, crying.
There were no smiles in the air tonight,
just candle flames of 1500 people-
sheltering the newborn flames behind delicate hands-
there was no song tonight, just singing- oh, say, can you see?
totally obligatory, totally sappy.
"And what I Smell is..."
The smell of rain is dancing outside my window-
The last time it rained there was no smell, and it was a subdued and sad rain
But today it smells like a good rain, a cleansing rain,
Free-ing once more.
And that's it. All old, ... older, anyway.
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| Date: | 2002-02-15 18:29 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: | tired |
Just for the record, my horoscope came true today. :-P
No carousing tonight. :) (That is, if I am to believe the rest of the 'scope.)
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| Date: | 2002-02-06 12:47 |
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| Security: | Public |
| Mood: | sleepy |
I can't be a writer.
I can't.
No, not because anyone ever told me I can't do it, or because I tried and failed. And yes, I KNOW those would be more honorable ways of failing. And it's not because no one believes in me; clearly there are those that do and support me whole-heartdly.
The thing is, *I* can't do it. I'm not MADE to be a writer. I don't HAVE what it takes, heart or soul or words or language or style.
I especially can't be a poet.
And the sad thing?
That's what I want most in this world.
But then I read real poetry- Dr. Leslie's to Ovid to Emily Dickenson and it occurs to me that I have none of that business- I don't have the delicate touch or the ability to weave a web around a word or tell a story or adeptly use metaphors and poetic devices. I cannot time my poems, make sure the rhythm is good.
I cannot edit my poems.
Some poet is me.
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I wish I could update with poetry, but I just tried to write a poem that has been living inside me for a while and it tapped its foot and said hells no.
I lost.
Anyway, I have the opening line of two poems, those being ?She never learned the easy grace of being a human being? (Inspired by a lady on the train) and ?Sometimes I hold my breath / ? not because I forget to breath, / or because I?m tired of breathing / but because I want to see / where it will take me.? (I found myself, after a mild hissy fit, holding my breath, and didn?t want to let it out- because I wanted to see how long I could hold it- I was fascinated in a cold, clinical kind of way.)
I wish I was a poet.
I love poetry, I love reading poetry. There are even a few lines of my own that I love- ?forever is just a change in perceptions.? ?To begin again (as if an a dream where multiple beginnings and endings concord into one incoherent and meaningful whole)?
? ?matter is neither created or lost? and nor is
Energy, once created, ever lost and her
words are lost.?
?It is hidden in my obscure dreams of sunset
and full moons
and ghosts surronded by shooting stars.
The running river with the heady rocks
that beckoned me with a siren song
more powerful than Ulyesses' mermaids...?
I am not saying these are good lines, they just please me, and since I only write to please myself (not believing it good enough to please others) I love them. And maybe if I had actually thought about the lines (especially the Berkshire line about beginning again) then I would hate them now, because they would seem so pretensious. But they came as they were written. These are all raw and rude poems that haven?t been drafted at all.
Anyway, this journal will be open to people shortly, I believe. I am almost ready. Almost.
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| Date: | 2001-10-04 08:51 |
| Subject: | |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  quixotic |
I am totally disconcerted.
Turns out, Sally never lived in the Beale estate-
her uncle, and two maiden cousins did.
I am not suprised that there was a lie.
But I don't know how to deal with this one. Cuz then what think about teh other day with the board.
And what does it all mean in the grand scheme of things?
Cuz I have a distinct feeling things aren't over, but now I don't know waht to do about it!
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| Date: | 2001-09-30 14:02 |
| Subject: | |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  thirsty |
The air tasted good tonight,
It tasted cold and solid-
I pursed my lips and drank it in
And realized this - the fall did
The stars were bright -
And the night so quiet
And voices sang to me alone
So I couldn't help but try it.
Feeling like some drugged girl,
I wandered across the ground
Stealing sips from here and there
And hearing not a sound.
Finally my door was there
And I had to leave my drink,
But with one last healthy gulp!
It tasted like snow, I think.
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jaideva's journal
cold
amused