Turkey Day?

OPEN

The sign, red in the dark,
I can see it.

People shuffle by, they
are worlds in an uncertain
orbit, passing me.

It’s stuffy in this bus and
I’m warm in the worst kind of way.
The people I see, they are zipped
or buttoned in coats;
warm in the best kind of way.

A school bus hurtles by
leaving yellow in my eyes.
It startled me.
Where are the children?

There’s a shop selling flowers.
Dylan bought some once, the colors
were nice until they bled in the water.
Imposter flowers.

It’s like I’m living in a popcorn kernel;
the bus ride makes it pop.

_______________________________________

Love

It’s that feeling reminiscent of
sensations produced by music. An ocean
behind your nose, swelling.
It could burst out of your ears.

It’s the sound of a bell, striking,
your eyes got wide.
Bell rings multiply leaving
your chest full of it.

It just feels right, comets
reeling above my head
into space devoid of stars
and full of myself.

_________________________________

Oblivious

On fireworkey nights when I’m “out to lunch” (as
Nonna once said) I blow kisses at the sky,
praying for a response.

Apples tingle in my throat and it swells,
but I’m just not paying attention.

War and Peace lies open, unread.

I’ve got a sense of something though, I know
it’s Friday, 10 PM. The temperature is cool
and I’m wearing a red sweatshirt.

It’s not that I don’t care, I just need to
sit alone on the beach. Only the beach, and me,
then I can get back to it.

It. Life, followed by a question mark.

____________________________________

I wrote all of these during my six hour bus ride to Boston. AKA Hell. It was fine though, since I had some Elizabeth Bishop and Allen Ginsberg books to read. I kept myself occupied, and I’m alive, so it’s all good! I’m so full from Thanksgiving that I might explode.

cheers–

Editor?

I just went to meet with Professor North to discuss some of my poetry, and it was quite a nice meeting. We discussed some editing that needs to be done on some of my poems, and here are some of the results…

You’ll get out

Go ahead, drown yourself in the sink
with white 2 o’clock light spray
all over the wall.

Take your cord with its carved raven
and the dress spilling red in the light,
leave your house behind you;
the air in front of you is clean.

no wonder you want to leave
for San Francisco
with the ocean spilling over its edges.

Ok, so this is probably one of my favorite poems I’ve written this year. It’s gone through two stages of editing now, I think. I feel quite satisfied with the results, although the middle stanza has caused me a lot of trouble. North told be about the original, not this version, that the middle stanza was unclear. I think I may have fixed that issue in this version… I mean, I could just take out the stanza altogether, but then I feel that the poem would be missing a key part. A key part of my vision, at least.

Go get tea

Boards covered in string to tie the universe up
with gaps to strain out the stars.

Leave the door open behind you, people will want to hear
the comets sing.

the shower got left on, a galaxy dies making a noise
like my shower.

In the hall, there’s Jupiter’s missing ring, I guess I was careless.

Night outside coughs,
giving me something to think about.

Down Ivry Street on my left, Miss Tragert sits on her lawn
making sketches of the air
with her pinky in the grass.

This poem was sort of a mess when I first wrote it… but I love this version. I definitely took out a lot… this poem exemplified one of my worst habits. Making my poems too…. too, as North says. Sometimes I go overboard with the metaphors and the imagery. I definitely recognize this problem, but I think it is unavoidable in my first drafts. I just need to clean my language up after I get all of the ideas onto paper, or onto the screen, respectively. Think clean, think simple… I need to keep telling myself that.

Those are only two of the… 5 or 6 poems I’ve edited today. I might post some of the others later. After we were done with my poems, I mentioned that I was excited for the Aphros submission deadline coming up. So, we started talking about Aphros and North says something along the lines of, “perhaps you will be one of the editors, or the editor, next year.” I couldn’t believe it! I won’t even be a senior yet! If this actually happens… I will be shocked. We shall see.

In other news, I am headed to Massachusetts tomorrow for Thanksgiving break. I can’t believe it’s been a year since… last Thanksgiving. I can’t even begin to fathom how much my life has changed since then. This really was a crazy time for me a year ago, and I suppose it’s a crazy time for me this year as well. It’s making me very nostalgic. I doubt being home will help my nostalgia whatsoever, but I’ll survive.

I can be so impulsive.

cheers–

Photo: Prospect Park

So, this is a recent photo I took at Prospect Park. Dylan, Caroline, and myself all went to a farmers market for some groceries, and ended up wandering around the park so that we could see some trees for once. It was quite nice, and I was taking lots of pictures. Most of them were just for fun; silly pictures of us throwing around leaves and such. However, I took this one in an effort to prove to Dylan that the “emo” face can be pretty. AKA, the face where she isn’t smiling all pretty and such. She was impressed with the outcome, and here it is! I quite like it…

 

cheers–

Legal Pad

So, I took a sheet out of my trusty legal pad the other day, and have gotten into the habit of writing poems during class. I might have mentioned this in my previous entry… anyways, here are two from this morning.

my brain is a well organized notebook, on a good day,
and your words are ink–
scribbled letters for pages and pages,
permanent ink.

-

when do we discover time?
squealing in the arms of our mothers
air diving and light dividing everywhere
born into a 5-star car life
contrained by the ultimate seatbelt, time, involuntarily
as the nurse scribbles the date and time of birth on her chart

-

It’s weird that my poems seem to paste in correctly today, without that weird double space that I couldn’t get rid of in my poem from yesterday… cool I guess? Kind of annoying though, since the formatting of yesterdays poem is far more important than the formatting of these two. I don’t think either of these are even done. We shall see.

Today is going to be, and has been, a nice and productive day. I have decided that I should do a poetry post and a photo post on this blog… I’d love to say every day, but as often as I can. I need some kind of work like this to keep myself up to date and always thinking about both of these things, so that I don’t get into slumps as easily.

There is going to be an epic Frank O’Hara poetry reading at Pace tonight. I am going (obviously)… and I am super excited. John Ashbery might be there…!
Ok, I’m going to do this photo post, and then finish my Emerson paper.
cheers–

Public Entries?

I just went through my old entries on this blog… (well, a lot of them aren’t old and are from this summer) and publicly published them. Why? Because I felt like it. I want to start blogging more of my poetry and such, and having those entries be public sounds like a good idea to me. It will make it easier for me to show my friends/acquaintances examples of my writing and such. Maybe I’ll even get some constructive criticism from someone!?

It’s funny how empty this blog looks without the private entries (which were written in copious amounts, especially this past summer). Oh well.

I never really write poetry while I’m sitting in classes, but today I actually wrote something during my Byzantine history class. This led to me not hearing parts of the lecture, which I regret, but I suppose I’ll be fine.

 

Cab headlights make horizontal streaks in the air

 

I come up out of the subway, 48 degrees clutching at my face,

street lights all artificial eating away at the peace of dark,

but not enough to swallow the moon all full of milk,

grainy sugar stars scattered on a black tray.

 

Crossing the street, here I am, Union Square,

people paired off or alone, a girl walks by me, probably a Zoe,

her music leaking out of taped up headphones into my ears.

I knew a Zoe like that once.

 

I like to watch people, so I sit on a step apart from the rest,

hugging my knees, I’m waiting for Jonathan out here in the middle of everyone and I’m cold,

but it’s better out here, isn’t it? I’d rather see my Zoe’s out in the wild

than see them from behind glass walls holding in the comfort and the warmth.

______

 

Hm, I don’t know. Am I embarrassed to post my poetry somewhere that anyone can read it? This is something I have struggled with for a long time, since my poetry often relates to people who could potentially find and read this blog. That makes me slightly uncomfortable, but I suppose I should just get used to it. Especially if I plan on trying to get any of my stuff published.

I’m going to go write a paper on Emerson now. The procrastination needs to stop.

cheers–

A Random Act of Kindness

I, my friends, am a fence. I am a long, solid, white fence hugging the edge of a not-so-well-trimmed yard. One may think, ‘Hah! A fence, what could it possibly know!’  Honestly though, I am quite the know-it-all when it comes to fences. After all, I am right next to the sidewalk, and this sidewalk kindly allows me to listen in on passing conversations every minute of every day. Due to this convenient location, I’d say I am pretty much in the know when it comes to your affairs. Anyways, enough boasting! On to the story…

It was one fine day; I’m not exactly sure which day, but I remember it was fine. I was standing proud and glistening under the sun, when a doll came flying into the grass below. “How curious!” I thought. However, it certainly was not all that curious. Soon enough I noticed a woman pushing a small child in a carriage. They swept by without a care in the world, the woman’s hair flying about in all directions behind her. The child I could see only for a moment when she  leaned out over the side of the carriage, blonde locks obscuring her face, small fists flailing toward some imaginary creature.

“This doll, is it yours?” I cried out to the child. She, of course, cannot hear me as I make desperate pleas for her to return. “How tragic!” I sigh and look at the doll, face down in the ungroomed grass. “This doll,” I pause to take a closer look, “it looks well used, well loved even. I hope she comes back for it.” The doll is small with a puffy white bonnet, a pilly, pink footsie, and bulging blue eyes.

_________________________

Ok, I know… strange? Well, this was my short attempt at starting to write a children’s story. I’ll finish it sometime. It is, in fact, based loosely on true events!

cheers–