| Man, so I was thinking, and you guys are a lucky few, I don't friend just anyone |
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[31 Dec 2009|11:10am] |
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somethings gotta give
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| suck meter |
[30 Dec 2009|07:19pm] |
this is taken from a poorly excecuted idea from 10th grade. i think it looks way better this time around.
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[30 Dec 2009|02:29am] |
Boulevard du Temple, Paris, 1838 (after Daguerre)
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| 711: Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back |
[29 Dec 2009|12:50am] |
"Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back"
Jeffrey McDaniel
I wanted you to be the first to know - Harper & Row
has agreed to publish my collected letters to you.
The tentative title is Exorcist in the Gym of Futility.
Unfortunately I never mailed the best one,
which certainly was one of a kind.
A mutual friend told me that when I quit drinking,
I surrendered my identity in your eyes.
Now I'm just like everybody else, and it's so funny,
the way monogamy is funny, the way
someone falling down in the street is funny.
I entered a revolving door and emerged
as a human being. When you think of me
is my face electronically blurred?
I remember your collarbone, forming the tiniest
satellite dish in the universe, your smile
as the place where parallel lines inevitably crossed.
Now dinosaurs freeze to death on your shoulder.
I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash,
how I once held the soft audience of your hand.
I've been ignored by prettier women than you,
but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence
so far, without spilling a drop.
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| 710: As Far As Cho-Fu-Sa |
[28 Dec 2009|12:15am] |
"As Far As Cho-Fu-Sa"
Mookie Katigbak
"If you are coming down the narrows of the river Kiang,
let me know beforehand and I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-Fu-Sa."
- The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter, Li Po
translated by Ezra Pound
What I am, ever, is this: composure of stone.
Spare weather visiting the garden, small as the hours
I keep watch by. Beyond this wall
Must be better weathers. This claw of stars
Must constellate somewhere into a bear,
Else names would lie.
Since winter's thaws, no script from you
Save this: "I travel the river and follow
The white gulls—"
Husband. See me walking the dusty pass
Where loom our prior lives?
Here the years pass that I enshrine
Within these walls, sparing nothing
From the ardors of my stare. Blue plums,
Paired butterflies repeat you
In a walled world. I tell myself
To clear the moss, mend the gate
So long unswayed and caked with dirt,
But nothing moves. Somewhere
You are actual. Happen to me there.
The poem upon which this poem is based/from which this poem drew its inspiration has been posted. You can find it if you click "Li Po" on the tags. (Those would be at the bottom of this entry and on the left side of the main page.) There are three versions of Li Po's poem posted, including the one translated by Ezra Pound.
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| Welp, see ya later Florida! |
[27 Dec 2009|08:14am] |
Florida weather apreesh.
Time to get back to the harsh winter.
Missing you already.
Two weeks, too long.
Sike. I'd wait until the end of time if I had to.
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| msed |
[26 Dec 2009|11:51pm] |
need to get faster at this make something everyday thing. to be fair though, it was christmas/family time all week, and i think Lee’s challenge doesn’t start till the first of January.
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[25 Dec 2009|07:16am] |
i spent half of Christmas eve with my family. the other half, i spent with a very close friend in the ER while he drooled/bled out the face into a a long bag that looked like a horse-condom. scrapes all over his lower face, split lip, about two teeth shattered, one looking like its bags are packed and its moving out.
i walked in knowing he'd been in a bad bike wreck, and that while he was hungry at the time... i don't think he had intended to eat the curb the way he did. as he sat in the wheelchair, hunched over and looking fairly miserable, i just sat in front of him and couldn't help myself but ask if all he wanted for christmas was his two front teeth. jordan, brittany, and i all erupted into laughter. hanging strands of blood and drool shook from the bag to his face, and his newly renovated arrangement of teeth shined under the florescent waiting room lights. she told me it was the frist time she'd seen him smile all night.
this is the only way i know how to deal with my problems, my friends problems, right or wrong, no matter how bad. i generally don't handle situations seriously, no matter how hard i try. sometimes in an unfortunate situation, all you can do is find something to laugh at and lighten up as best you can.
merry christmas indeed,
-cavan
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| 709: Christmas 1963 |
[25 Dec 2009|10:48pm] |
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"Christmas 1963"
Joseph Enzweiler
Because we wanted much that year
and had little. Because the winter phone
for days stayed silent that would call
our father back to work, and he
kept silent too with our mother,
fearfully proud before us.
Because I was young that morning
in gray light untouched on the rug
and our gifts were so few, propped
along the furniture, for a second
my heart fell, then saw how large
they made the spaces between them
to take the place of less. Because
the curtained sun rose brightly
on our discarded paper and the things
themselves, these forty years,
have grown too small to see, the emptiness
measured out remains the gift,
fills the whole room now, that whole year
out across the snowy lawn. Because
a drop of shame burned quietly
in the province of love. Because
we had little that year
and were given much.
Merry Christmas.
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| 708: little tree |
[24 Dec 2009|10:47pm] |
"little tree"
E. E. Cummings
little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"
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| 707: Making the Best of the Holidays |
[24 Dec 2009|10:43pm] |
"Making the Best of the Holidays"
James Tate
Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, "We're
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you're
still alive." She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
"Sleep it off, Hugh," I said, "I can barely under-
stand you, you're slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas." The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. "I hate you," she said. "You're the most
disgusting human being on the planet." "You're
absolutely right," I said, "and I've always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie."
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. "Who was it?" I
asked. "It was my mother," she said. "And what
did she say?" I asked. "She said she wasn't my
mother," she said.
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[24 Dec 2009|05:48pm] |
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i'm shitty
lets be reckless and throw our hearts sight unseen into the gauntlet. we'll get over anything and everything eventually. getting hurt should be expected. i've got band-aids, stitches, surgical tape, and gauze. scars make for good stories anyway, so why all the precaution?
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| 706: Without |
[23 Dec 2009|11:33pm] |
"Without"
Donald Hall
He hovered beside Jane's bed,
solicitous: "What can I do?"
It must have been unbearable
while she suffered her private hurts
to see his worried face
looming above her, always anxious to do
something when there was
exactly nothing to do. Inside him,
some four-year-old
understood that if he was good -- thoughtful,
considerate, beyond
reproach, perfect -- she would not leave him.
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[23 Dec 2009|11:05pm] |
i never appreciated the weather here, i wish we had this in boston. right now.
but, i still enjoy the fucking freezing tundra of massachusetts as well.
i'm home.
i did miss my family.
and some friends.it's weird that my room, isn't my room anymore.
i've never been so nervous to meet a girl's family.
you see what you do to me?
what am i going to do for two weeks!
missin da fug outta youz is what i'm having to go do
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| 705: Sonnet XCIV (If I Die) |
[23 Dec 2009|12:53am] |
"Sonnet XCIV"
Pablo Neruda
If I die, survive me with such a pure force
you make the pallor and the coldness rage;
flash your indelible eyes from south to south,
from sun to sun, till your mouth sings like a guitar.
I don’t want your laugh or your footsteps to waver;
I don’t want my legacy of happiness to die;
don’t call to my breast: I’m not there.
Live in my absence as in a house.
Absence is such a large house
that you’ll walk through the walls,
hang pictures in sheer air.
Absence is such a transparent house
that even being dead I will see you there,
and if you suffer, Love, I’ll die a second time.
in the original Spanish
Si muero sobrevíveme con tanta fuerza pura
que despiertes la furia del pálido y del frío,
de sur a sur levanta tus ojos indelebles,
de sol a sol que suene tu boca de guitarra.
No quiero que vacilen tu risa ni tus pasos,
no quiero que se muera mi herencia de alegría,
no llames a mi pecho, estoy ausente.
Vive en mi ausencia como en una casa.
Es una casa tan grande la ausencia
que pasarás en ella a través de los muros
y colgarás los cuadros en el aire.
Es una casa tan transparente la ausencia
que yo sin vida te veré vivir
y si sufres, mi amor, me moriré otra vez.
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| 704: The Shortest Day |
[21 Dec 2009|08:38pm] |
"The Shortest Day"
Susan Cooper
And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!
I am working on a project for my grandmother and am in search of poetry relating to grief, continuing with life after a spouse's death, Alzheimer's/loss of memory, loneliness, love, heaven, et cetera. I hope that makes sense. Anyway, I would love any help you could give me with poetry relating to those topics. If I've posted the poem before that's fine, since there are 700+ poems and I can't recall every one. Thank you so much.
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| ...I know I was a victim of my own device, and I want to live to see a brand new life. |
[19 Dec 2009|10:00pm] |
So the epic year is coming to a very mighty close. For one of the first times I can collect from my memory, I feel as if I am beginning to understand what growing up means. After years of collapsing beneath the weight of comfort and stagnancy, my eyes are spreading to the true colors and true nature of the people we encounter in life. As an impressionable fifteen year old, I finally found an escape from home. I was introduced to a group of friends that handed me a world I could have never imagined. A planet of angst, obscure observation, painful interactions, and very quick judgement. Through this residential transition, I somehow managed to stand out as a scholar, even as a 2.8 unweighted GPA with a 1090 SAT score. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I wore tight jeans or shirts with obscenities on them. Or maybe it was something as trivial as being one of the only student body to have a visible tattoo at a such a young and tender age. Perhaps it was my ability to break down and analyze each class I partook in, which lightly reflected that I enjoyed learning. To a teacher I feel like the greatest satisfaction they can attain is knowing that you have influenced someone to learn, to grow their brain to something great. Whether it be four students out of a class of thirty, that is four students who will look back and remember you as something positive. In the new scene I was introduced to, I found people who were teaching me. They did not know, and may never have the slightest clue. These are people I thank so dearly from the deepest trenches of my heart, people I respect. I say people because I am referring to some individuals who are no longer a part of my life. Be it death, spite, or because of simple separation to grow (i.e. University, Military, Travel, etc.)...some people are gone. It happens. Sometimes for good, sometimes for bad, but often for progression. Growing in a new found family of sex addicts and life-gamblers, I felt like I was on the right path. I had it all, gorgeous high school sweetheart, a job that paid me really well, an amazing group of brothers, and parents who I knew cared. None of it was handed to me, which is part of the extraordinary feeling of putting yourself on top of the world. Sounds narcissistic as could be, but it is far from that. From the education given to me through the years, I was able to gather that every single individual lives in their own world. The world I live in, is what I make of it. I am walking an atlas of obstacles and boundaries, some of which simply cannot be passed or moved. Other people are making their own maps, different personal obstacles, different opposing social boundaries.
Two thousand and nine started off a very cold one for me. Don't ask me what the weather was like either, I couldn't and wouldn't tell you to save my life. I found too much adhesiveness to the shit year trailing out my asshole. All it took was for me to divert my attention to a more positive outlook, a more me outlook, a more "what I need" outlook. I really needed to travel. It was something I longed to do, since I was rarely given the chance as a child/teen. First stop...Philadelphia. I fell for her. Philadelphia is where I would like to be balls deep right now, even in the bowels of her currently frosty breath. But Philadelphia is not what I needed. The same problems lurking around me in Orlando, would certainly carry with. Money don't come from nowhere, and I'd like to go back to school. Sorry babe, you're fun to visit and fun to ride...but I can't stay long.
Back home for an excellent Florida summer.
Summer came to a strong close and I found love. Got blindsided by it actually. I could not remember the feeling I felt, prior to August. For the first time since what I thought would be the last, I was on top of the world. Months go by and I'm living the working man's struggle. And I'm getting by. By the skin of my teeth and the translucent hairs on my arms...I am getting by, and about to get ahead. I am not falling off of my peak, merely hanging on and doing pull-ups right now. I have an everlasting playlist of songs to my life, on shuffle playing through the drums of my head and the beat of my feet when I am riding through the Central Florida midnight streets.
This year was a very mighty year, and it is coming to an epic close. No one has to explain themselves if we are in our own worlds
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| 703: Track Conditions |
[19 Dec 2009|05:52pm] |
"Track Conditions"
Eireann Corrigan
After you decide again that every fortune
unfurled from a cookie means me and I decide
that every song on the jukebox means you,
I travel from college to see you in your first
new apartment. Save thirty dollars taking the train
first from the city to Trenton, then from Trenton
to Philadelphia. Four hours to shuttle eighty miles.
And somewhere on the way out of Jersey,
that first train trembles and slides into a long,
screaming skid. Lights falter off and the bags
On the overhead racks hit the floor. The man
across from me surrenders his handkerchief
to the woman behind him with the nosebleed
and the mother in front of me unbuckles her baby
from his stroller to take him in her arms and
Mr. Handkerchief says That's not safe--
Leave the kid in the carriage. And she says Who
do you think you are? And we sit bickering in dark
panic until the man who collected our tickets
picks his way through the aisle. He has a flashlight
and calls us folks. He says Folks, please keep calm.
And I notice he calls the person we hit
an unfortunate soul. He says An unfortunate soul
stepped out on to the tracks and our brakeman
did not have enough warning to stop. For some
reason, I want to turn to that woman
with the nosebleed and say If the paramedics
had given up, then the boy I'm going to visit would count
as an unfortunate soul. But then the fluorescent lights
choke on and that ticket collector speaks again,
says Folks, a member of our crew is understandably
distraught. We'll just wait a few minutes for relief
to arrive from the next station. And I wonder
if the shaken brakeman will lower himself
into a passenger seat and ride, staring out the window.
Or maybe the jeep that delivers his replacement
will ferry him home. He'll sit with his head
across his wife's lap and bunch her skirt in his fists,
the way you have mine those nights you've said prayers
before unbuttoning my dress. Who do you think
I am? By the time we arrive in Trenton,
I've missed my connection, am already an hour and
a half late and when that train to Philadelphia staggers
to a stop, I already know the news the conductor will crackle
over the intercom, just like when the girl who told me
you'd pulled the trigger, when that same girl telephoned again
one year later, I knew she'd say something I didn't want
to know. Tonight, I sit on the second train as quietly as I sat
at Ben's funeral, worried that someone might recognize me
as the one common thread. Ben took me out the night
you held a gun to your head and fired. I knew he loved me
because he'd drive me to the hospital and sit in his car
while I sat by your bed. It takes more than an hour
for the police to arrive and clear the tracks ahead of our train.
It's a Friday night in May, warm enough to wait on the platform
without a jacket and two men in two states have stepped into
the brightening lights as decisively as you'd step off
a highrise. What are the statistical chances of all this?
This time the whole stoic crew stays on and the electricity
didn't even flicker. How can one death cause less of anything?
At first, when that girl called, all I could be was grateful
that she wasn't calling with news of you. Who could
forgive me for that? My father carried me out of my dorm
and that night, I dialed your telephone number at college
and said Daniel shot himself in the head. And you said
What? And I said Ben drove his car into a tree. And
when I told you it meant that there was something I
must have done to both of you, you asked Who do you think
you are? Right now i am dizzy -- I want to close my eyes
against you and bite the collar of your shirt. By the time
I arrive at the station, you've given up waiting on those benches.
I describe you at the window and the man there remembers
you perfectly. He tells me you had him call my name over
and over the loud speaker. He says He was so disappointed--
he thinks you changed your mind. It's almost midnight.
I can't tell you why the whole trip took seven hours
or you'll end up on your knees, weeping into me for
your own good fortune, for those men and their dismal
lack of miracles. So when the taxi finally delivers me
to your drive, you are angry but less angry
than you'll be later on in out lives, worried but less
worried then you have been before. Now I remember
how you held my face in your hands that night -- like
it was a face you had had stapled a sketch of on every
telephone pole across the city. And now, when we kneel, each
at our separate beds, we thank and pray for other things.
Who do we think we are? In my mind, the brakeman walks away
from the train into that darkened tunnel, his head
bent down, his cap in his hands.
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