the sky has teeth marks

All complexity gleaming just beyond the panes,

all ache hovering just above the bones.

The sun thudding on the naked ground,

loud as a rainstorm.

Two bleached lips forever coming together,

then coming apart, having forgotten
the moistness of words.

All alone in a cramped casing of flesh: stand.

Stand, stand with an iron taste ravishing the tongue.

Teeth marks bitten around the edges

of the heart, of the sky.

Birdsongs that taste unfamiliar,

yet eerily recall the ghosts of birches once known.

A wasteland. That is what this is called,

I believe. It is the only belief I let stay:
lodged securely in my windpipe.

-------------------------------------------

This poem was written (for the most part) a few months ago whilst I was listening to Patti Smith.  It's the latest in a long series of attempts to write something ugly. Well... not ugly, exactly. I just get fed up sometimes when my words feel too glib and pretty and I want to tear them up and leave them lying around with the sharp edges pointing upwards.

I don't know how I'm feeling, so I canna tell you. I'm still here, though I am still often overcome with the desire to disappear.


I've been uncharacteristically busy, which is actually awful because it puts me in the mindset on my non-busy days that I deserve to laze around and make an inordinate number of GIFs. That's my new hobby, you see. That and scanning things. If you follow me on tumblr, you might have noticed. Not that I've been obnoxious about it, or anything.....

My scanning-obsession all started with me deciding to scan a W.S. Merwin poem. I discovered how easy it was, and how much fun, and since then I've just been scanning anything that catches my fancy in a book.

I don't want to post my GIFs on here, but I will post a few of my favourite scans!

The W.S. Merwin poem that started it all.

Julia Strachey "cogitating".

Dorothy Gish and Elmer Clifton, 1916

Marjorie Hart (author of Summer At Tiffany) and her friend
Marty at the beach in 1945.

The Beatles in Elizabethan Costume, 1964

Ant McPartlin, 9 months

Declan Donnelly, 3 years

 (As you can see I saved best for last - little Ant and Dec, awww.)

(And it is really hard to format pictures with the new blogger, so pardon my wonky spacing. >_<)


This is rather a patchwork post - two unrelated things sewn together. It feels like the old days! This is nice. For me, at least. ;)

snow and sleep (or lack of both)

it had been streaming past
leaving trails on our windows
but at the graveyard
the car slowed
and i saw clearly the airy tufts of ice
suspended
like dust motes shaken from the clouds
too soft, too frail
to make any difference
on the soggy ground
(not that anything would make a difference
to the occupants of the cemetery:
the ghosts and the ersatz flowers)

-------------------------------------

Inspired by observations from the car window, I scribbled this poem on the back of a bulletin on our way home from church. It is still snowing slightly, but it's not leaving much effect. *sigh* Besides some flurries/light snow last Sunday, we've had no other snow this season.

I hate February. I've been distracted and depressed, and, to top it all off, nights haven't been good lately.

I lie down to sleep and my mind won't shut off. It jabbers on and on and I have to lay there and listen to it.

I don't know what the problem is. Actually, I haven't been taking as many walks, which is most likely a contributing factor (Easily rectified, too!) Thankfully, I've remembered what a soporific effect the music of Trespassers William has on me. So many nights this week I've turned to their album Different Stars when I can't stand lying awake in the darkness any longer; it soothes my mind and soon sends me into the streams leading to sleep.


(Anna-Lynne's voice just breaks my heart.)


Also, a lot of you know this already, but I caved and made a tumblr. The world of tumblr still makes me feel slightly like I'm being swallowed whole, but I've loved being closer to certain friends.

Well, that's all, I think. Sorry this post is rather down in the mouth. Winter always gets me in the end.

I hope your Februaries have been more satisfactory than mine.

But it's my theme, really.

Emily's Theme
by Charles Simic

My dear trees, I no longer recognize you
In that wintry light.
You brought me a reminder I can do without:
The world is old, it was always old,
There's nothing new in it this afternoon.
The garden could've been a padlocked window
Of a pawnshop I was studying
With every item in it dust-covered.

Each one of my thoughts was being ghostwritten
By anonymous authors. Each time they hit
A cobwebbed typewriter key, I shudder.
Luckily, dark came quickly today.
Soon the neighbors were burning leaves,
And perhaps a few other things too.
Later, I saw the children run around the fire,
Their faces demonic in its flames.

--------------------------------

Feeling strange & undefinable. Nothing seems important anymore & that scares me. I'm not depressed, or at least it doesn't feel like I am; but strains of November echo back & my dreams feel like they never belonged to me. I don't know what to do now that my hopes, my passions stare at me with the eyes of a stranger. So I devour the printed word & pretend that this ache is negligible & will go away even if I do nothing to try & alleviate it.

I don't know what else to do.

Also, I wasn't going to tell you all this now, but I keep putting it off, though I did wish to get it off my chest, so... The problem between my mother & I that I mentioned a couple of posts ago was this: she found out about my self-harm of last winter. There are no words to describe how it felt to make her so sad & guilty. Because, of course, she blamed herself to a greater extent than she should have. I always knew she would, should she (God forbid) ever discover this secret; still, there was little I could say to assuage her sorrow.

Things are all right now. A little different, but good. Admittedly, I do still feel a little on edge at times...

Of course, this might have come as a surprise to everyone, since I never made more than a couple, vague allusions to my cutting. I want to make it clear I'm not that girl anymore. I haven't been for a while; I had moved on, which is why it was so painful to have all those memories dredged up.
Thank you all for always caring. I don't know where I'd be without my dear blogging friends.

I felt calm today while sitting in church. I am daring to hope that soon my dreams will be mine again, cherished & familiar; they will come back, wagging their tails behind them... :)

{Photo is by Linda McCartney.}

moon susurrations

Moon susurrations:
embroidery of the night;
soaking through the
somnolent surface of the lake
and your eyes.

Stars never become obsolete,
though die they must.
But I believe they
go on singing
a diamond-song
in our souls.

And those who mourn
the holes left in the sky
can find what they seek
by knowing me, by
knowing you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The inspiration for this poem came to me in an interesting form: desperation.
I've been babysitting my next door neighbour twice a week for the past two months; I'm done now and am beyond relieved since I'm not fond of babysitting. He's an easy kid to babysit, thank goodness, but he has an annoying habit of watching my least favourite cartoons repeatedly. One afternoon while watching an inane cartoon, I could feel my IQ slowly dwindling; I knew I had to do something... and fast. I pulled out my phone, opened a new text and, with little thought beforehand, wrote this poem. I attribute the fact I used several big words to an attempt at deflecting the stupidity blaring from the television. I'd say that's the best use I've ever gotten out of my phone! (I just don't have that inseparable bond with my phone that most of my generation has.)

This poem gave me hope that I still have some inspiration rattling around inside somewhere, and who knows what will trigger it!


In other news, it's almost November! Is anyone participating in National November Writing Month (AKA NaNoWriMo)? I've been planning to do it ever since I found out about it too late last year, but sadly, it's not to be... Not this year, at least.

First of all, I'm already working with serious intent on this novel, and secondly, I've been asked by a family friend to write a script combining Louisa May Alcott's book Eight Cousins and its sequel Rose in Bloom. I was completely gobsmacked when she asked. Such a thing never crossed my mind! I had to consider it a while before giving an answer; but I admit, I knew all along I would say yes.
So far, I've only been re-reading the books, writing notes, and also struggling with the fear it will turn out horribly. I've been in enough plays over the years to know a lot about scripts. But writing one? Scary!
Still, this is my first real comission and if it turns out well, I will not only get paid for it, but also, in all likelihood, get to see it performed! (This family friend has directed several plays as a part of the theater organization I'm a part of.)

I want to start actually writing it soon, and since I'm already working on my novel, spending the month of November writing an entirely new work seems like a bad idea. As much as I want to do it, I know it could only end with me pulling my hair out. (And I rather love my hair, so you can see why this would be tragic. :P)


Next year, though! Next year!


{Painting is 'Sisters of the Fertile Moon' by Cyn McCurry.}

all the lonely people

Playing piano in a darkened room:
'Eleanor Rigby' (because I need to know
where all the lonely people belong)

I was playing
and the keys
gleamed like phantoms;
tender ghosts that glowed with solace
and sustenance

the hours and weeks before
had been full of voiceless screams,
of sighs and trembling

the ghosts and the
bittersweet darkness
of their ebony threads
were the sole thing that could
bind these tatters of mine

they filled me, stopped the disintegration
(I'm a grey colour now, but still here)

And my fingers keep on pacing,
always looking for their songs


(for this is the only way
I know how to speak.
This is the only way
I can communicate.

Listen;
know me. )


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My emotional hurricane has calmed to a rainstorm. It's much easier to live with, but I'm tired of being anywhere from damp to soaked all the time; I just want to be dry!

On a happier note, I started a new journal yesterday! I don't know why, but I love starting a new journal (though finishing the old one is somewhat bittersweet). Through the years, especially when I was younger, I've kept various diaries... but it is only my journal(s) that I have stayed faithful to.
I kept my first journal from December 2000 to January 2009. My second journal I kept from February 2009 to, well, August 2011! (As you can see, my writing habits have greatly spiked in the last few years.)
The journal I have just started was given to me for Christmas by my brother.


I love it so much since I'm a Beatles fan of astronomical proportions and Abbey Road is one of my favourite albums. It has been lying around my room tempting me for around 8 months, so I'm excited to finally be writing in it!

Eh, it's the little things in life, isn't it?




{Both photos by me.}

A Millay Sonnet

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
who told me that time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him in the shrinking of the tide;
the old snows melt from every mountainside;
and last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
heaped in my heart, and old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
to go--so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
where never fell his boot or shone his face
I say "There is no memory of him here."
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

{One of my favourite poems by one of my favourite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay. The photograph is of her and was found on wikipedia.}

An E.J.B. Poem

 











She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow

With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away 

~Emily Jane Brontë

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
{I have been writing a lot this week. More than I have in a long time. I stayed up till 1 AM last night working on one of my stories. It is rather strange that I have had such an outpouring of thoughts since I'm also being plagued by self-doubts. They rear their ugly heads every now and then. Oh, how I wish I knew a spell to oust them! So, consequently, nothing I write seems to measure up to some obscure standard I've set. I can never decide if self-imposed standards are beneficiary or just stifling...}
{Picture by and of me.}

And speaking of poetry...

I had to write a poem for school this week. I much prefer reading it to writing it. {I suspect a lot of people do.}
The poem was supposed to be a dramatization. But, I found out that I am not very good at dramatizations at all. Happily though, I was allowed to write infree verse! Which, to me, is preferable over trying to rhyme and fit everything into a meter.
I spent most of the week wondering what in the world I was going to write about, and finally last night I penned this:

My mind
and this piece of paper
are kindred spirits
undeniably.
We lay and think
blank thoughts. Both with
wrinkled brows.
Eyes wide open;
neither blinking nor seeing.

So I sit. I stare and
the paper stares right back.
Who will win this contest? I wonder
if he or I will cave in first.
Who will crack, showing signs
of life and lose
this
uninspired
staring
game.

Not a dramatization, but thankfully my "teacher" is laid-back. {Goodness, I love homeschooling!}
My littler brother's only comment after reading it was: "Why doesn't it rhyme?!?"
Obviously he did not appreciate my attempt at imitating such poets as Carl Sandburg and William Carlos Williams. Ah, well. :P

Poetry and Me!

I used to think that I hated poetry.
I mean, everyone else hated poetry! What was up with this whole analyzation thing? And I had read a volume of Robert Frost's poems for school that I didn't enjoy. Sooo... I must hate poetry.

Which is idiotic logic. {Especially since I loved Shakespeare's plays and had read all his sonnets. *rolls eyes* I also loved various humourous poetry, such as Lewis Carroll and Shel Silverstein.}

I realized later, you can't just read one poet's work and decide you don't like poetry. That would be like reading a book, not liking it, and saying "I hate all books!" No, you just don't like that author.

So, there I was. Convinced I hated poetry. My brother, who also hates poetry, was complaining about this book of poetry he had to read for school. He especially disliked one poet in particular, Carl Sandburg.


I don't remember exactly how this came about but I ended up reading one of his poems titled I Sang:

I sang to you and the moon
But only the moon remembers.
I sang
O reckless free-hearted
free-throated rythms,
Even the moon remembers them
And is kind to me.

Being an offbeat kind of girl, I liked the fact that it didn't rhyme or follow a strong meter. {Obviously, I was not familiar with the term "free verse".}
"Hey, I like this!" I said joyfully to my brother.
He just rolled his eyes and said, "You would."

Since then, I have kept an open heart to poetry. I have discovered many new poets I love and enjoy. {Though you still won't find me analyzing poetry!! I am content to see in it what I want to see in it. Overanalyzation gets ridiculous!}

Now, I am saddened when I hear people say they hate poetry. Obviously, they haven't found the right poet for them. They have no idea what a wonderful thing they're missing!

'I am Christina Rossetti.'

I am back from vacation! I had a lovely time, reading, writing, canoeing, wading, walking, admiring nature, and braving no air-conditioning. ;)

Anyhow, as you should know from my last post, I brought some books of poetry along with me. One of these was The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti {Only Volume I, as I found out later!} I had never read much, if any, Christina Rossetti but now I would consider her as being one of my favourite poets.
My interest in Christina Rossetti was aroused after a recent re-reading of one of my favourite books: The Tattooed Potato and other clues by Ellen Raskin. This humorous book is about a girl named Dickory Dock who becomes the apprentice to a mysterious, eccentric painter named Garson.
In this excerpt, Dickory is upset because of her ridiculous name and Garson tells her an interesting story about Christina Rossetti.

"You know, Chief Quinn was right about {your name} being a happy name. Besides, a name is just a label; it can stand for whatever a person makes of it." He left off painting to look at his sulking apprentice. "Have you ever heard of Christina Rossetti?"
"No, and that's not a funny name or a happy name." Dickory was screwing and unscrewing the same cap on the same tube of paint.
"I'm talking about names being symbols for who and what you are," Garson said, returning to his canvas. "Christina Rossetti was a poet, a wonderful poet. She was also a bit loony, but that's not the point."
Dickory set down the paint tube and listened.
"Christina Rossetti was a shy, very shy creature, who had difficulty speaking to anyone but her family and a few intimate friends. Well, one evening, somehow or other, she found herself at a party. No one noticed her: small, retiring, dressed in black, she sat like a shadow against the wall while the fashionable people flirted, and flaunted their ignorance, and chattered their silly chatter. Then the subject turned to poetry. You can imagine what was said: 'No one had time to read poetry anymore,' or 'All the good poets are dead,' or 'I don't know much about poetry, but I know what I like." Whatever was said was shallow and stupid, so shallow and stupid that our timid poet stood up and walked to the center of the room. Suddenly all was quiet. All eyes were on this small nervous woman in dull black. Can you guess what she said, Dickory?"
"What?"

"Head held high, she stood tall as she could in the middle of those frightening people and said:
'I am Christina Rossetti.' Then she turned and sat down.
"That's all?"
"That's everything. 'I am Christina Rossetti,' she said, which meant: 'I am a poet, a very good poet.' Those in the room who recognized her name realized they had been speaking rubbish; and those who did not understand were silenced by their ignorance. 'I am Christina Rossetti' was all she need have said. Do you understand what I'm saying, Dickory Dock? Worry less about your name, and more about who you are and who you want to be, and what Dickory Dock will stand for."

And that is what got me interested in Christina Rossetti. For some reason, I love that story. {Also Garson gave an excellent piece of advice, I think.}

{Christina Rossetti as painted by her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti.}

Do you have any favourite poets?