Workshop is done. What does that mean? I have a portfolio of 25 poems in the works, some more complete than others. So, I have a bunch to work with, and hopefully I can post some of them here. Actually, some of them already are posted here so, yay. Even though I've come a long way, it seems I still have a long way to go. My goal for break: reading up on minimalism, imagistic pieces, and symbolic imagery. Gaining a further insight. Getting a job. And reading up on Buddhism. Hopefully these things are possible. It sounds easier than what I've been doing this term. Any ways, finals are almost over. I just needed to post to get my mind off things. And now, off to work! (Oh: and I need to RPG/catch up on supernatural...I'm going to try not to keep adding to the list)

Referenced in Rankine's Don't Let Me Be Lonely:

A day so happy
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

Revision to Sand Dollar:

 

( Our Shore )

 

I've stopped worrying about the quality of these poems. I will simply post.

Torsion
You took a stethoscope to my spiral
shell.
What you found:
love, on the hollow side.
Heart problems,
because you see the vacancy
and the organs have shrunk.

Well these aren't my best (usually I try to only put my best stuff out there) but hey, this is my journal. This is a place for catharsis. All things are beautiful here, and every poem has the potential to become a better poem. Some are more complete than others. That said, I'm going to toss a few poems out there:

 

( A Revival )

 

I.

Flowers budding in the moonlight

secret soul

you have to look

to find them, swayed

only once this year.

 

II

The petals have been stripped open, the stamen

tempted to give its honey to you.

There is a marvelous strength in the flower

bending, in praise of moonlight, when the radiance

is not the moon, but transforming.

 

III.

The gardener must leave the flower

to grow alone.

I wrote this one recently, and it's about my mother. She seems to find her way into my poems these days (including crinkles). I'm not sure what that means, but I think it's a good thing. She hasn't really been there before :DD


Sand Dollar

Sand dollar. I had never seen one before.

So we searched and searched

until we could find one.

 

My mother rolled her pants up

and stooped amid the seaweed

while I collected pebbles.

 

When she found, it was dead.

A shore, in Mexico.

Portrait

You see my back. You want to paint.

I want to turn around and catch you, white full moon.

My arms are not complete.

Left instead for you, new muse.

Crinkles

In rib-shaped iron, pink foil wrappers

pinched, into spoons and little chairs:

this is how we make origami in Orizaba.

The residue of dark chocolate is left on my fingertips,

tell-tale signs on toy sized tea sets, we pretend to sip

two parts dirt, one part water

with spoons.

Tin foil hands: our fingers touched,

rounded thumbs.

III.

The gardener must leave the flower
to grow alone.

I've been writing about flowers and birds lately, so I thought of starting up this sequence...

I.

Flowers budding in the moonlight

secret soul

you have to look

to find them, swayed

only once this year.

 

II

The petals have been stripped open, the stamen

tempted to give its honey to you

There is a marvelous strength in the flower

bending, in praise of moonlight, when the radiance

is not the moon,  but transforming.


I've been looking to add onto this so...I'll keep u posted

Well my darlings, I've been toying around with Amber, making some small talk with the other madam in Treno and a drugdealer (Roxas, Kingdom Hearts) so far. But I just made my first semi-substantial post:


( RPG time )



so yea... you just gotta type and let go, and voila

This poem struck me for some reason. So I'll just put it here

It was better when we were
together in one body.
Thirty years. Screened
through the green glass
of your eye, moonlight
filtered into my bones
as we lay
in the big bed, in the dark,
waiting for my father.
Thirty years. He closed
your eyelids with
two kisses. And then spring
came and withdrew from me
the absolute
knowledge of the unborn...

I tried on your power ranger gloves:
my hands felt small and pink. I knew
a heart could not hold a heart.

And how: red and sure
like a cardinal's breast
was the chance.

So, I usually don't post these unless I put them through workshop first. And believe me, I'm going to have a portfolio at the end of these three months, so watch out ; ) But I really like this one the way it is, so that's how I'm going to post it : )

Wanting

Big hearts, throbbing
when the hands feel small and pink
and a heart cannot hold a heart
but speaks, beating truths

and how: red and sure
like a cardinal's breast
love and loving can be.

Here is my final version. Let's hope Iit gets into Catch.


You see my back. You want to paint.
I want to turn around and catch you, white full moon.
My arms are not complete.

So, it's been awhile prose poetry. Sometimes I feel like I would be better at prose, since I'm more of a fiction writer than a poet anyways. This is a revision of, if you have been following the progression of Darwinism and Religiosity, By the Melody of a Falling Tree. Which was actually written over winter break, and plugged into a work from senior year of high school. I tossed it into poetry workshop and revised it for class. Hence, a new version. I may end up changing the title by the way. copyright 2009.

( By Melody of a Falling Tree )

Hey, I couldn't find another word with the connotations of love and art, and love v, romantic. The title will probably change anyways. So I was upset that "Portrait" sounded so simple and choppy after the teacher edited out a line and a half (more or less). My solution: to cut even more. Ironic, no? I also find something interesting in the line reductions.

You say my back needs paint.
Dab, a white full moon.
I want to turn.
Arms, incomplete.

(Copyright 2009) Another poem, also simplistic.

( Bubbles )

So, this is a short one. I've been trying to minimalize my poetry lately. And it's a perfect response to you-know-who's 4 line poem. Who said I have to sacrifice it all for the poem? (apparently my teacher. and she's right. but anyways). Copyright 2009, by the way : P.

You see my back. You want to paint.
On it, you will dab a white, full moon.
I want to turn around.
My arms are not complete.