(This is the piece that I wrote for entry into IYWS. It has since been unedited)
I sit here alone, in a pitch-black room of reminiscence. Memories come and fade with the ticking of a clock. Moments of every depth play themselves around me like a firestorm of thoughts. A slideshow plays itself on the iris of my eyes. Words are screamed and whispered into my ears. It is an aura of insanity.
My legs have weakened and I am driven down onto my knees. Sweat drips from the tip of my nose, and spit drools from my lips. My eyes are dry in their sockets. I am here alone; that is my greatest punishment.
If a wish could ever be granted, may it be that I am able to see her again. Just once more is all I could ever ask for, but she will not come; I know it.
I sit here alone, in my dreamy sanctuary, awaiting the presence of another to settle my aching thoughts and throbbing heart. I lie here and wait. I lie here and wonder. I lie here and hope; but know it is in vain. I cannot expect it to come, like a bastard child waiting for his father to hold him it does not come. Who am I to think I deserve such a thing? I feel the hopelessness of it all, yet I still wait. Still wait so that I may see her once more. Still wait so that her eyes may capture me; see the contours of her face, the ridges of her smile; see everything of her that made me want her so much more.
I sit here alone, but I can almost feel her presence beside me; her finger traces the folds in my hand to tickle me, while her other hand cups it beneath. She sings a childlike tune as we sit together. Sometimes, at the high notes her voice cracks, and if I laugh she turns to me and teasingly hovers her lips just in front of mine. I would feel her breath palm my chin and neck as she makes my lips twitch with--
--No, that part of me is over. That is a scrap of my mind that has disappeared inside. I search through the binding labyrinth of my spirit with no destination, and find myself broken, for through the travels of my mind I am shocked, scorned, stabbed, spit upon with the turn of every corner. This wearing battle has sucked the life through my outstretched fingers. This piece is missing, and I can summon no further will to continue on without it.
My vibrant heart has faded with every poisonous sting. It has weakened and wrinkled, and no longer resembles anything of quality. I take every hit. I’ve grown accustomed to it. It has become my abode. It has become my only sanctuary. The pain is constant; there is no hope, so there is no letdown. How a heaven of such contradiction can exist is beyond logic, but hell does not give me an invitation to otherwise.
A picture flashes before my vision and embeds itself to memory. I see a man and a
This is a project we had the first week of class. A mandala is a circle that shows your soul. http://img198.imageshack.us/img198/9448/201108120004503622.jpg
here is a link to the drawing
My mandala says many things about my inner self- my desires, my fears, my tendencies, and my thoughts. It is not organized too much, although it is mildly. There are about six different portions and some flow into others.
I first drew a fish, this is representation of me. I try to swim through the world and I try to embrace life. The fish is smiling as I smile when I embrace living. Waves are scattered on the fish’s skin; it is the tranquility of the fish and life in general. It is bigger than the boat in another scene; I think a fish has a significant amount of importance even though it is only a fish.
A large leafy tree is growing out of the middle of the circle. This tree grows like I, myself try to grow. It grows stronger, older, and larger and becomes abundant in life. It stems out to more and more branches and that explains how everything is related to everything and that all life is a common miracle. I climb the tree which shows my respect and love for it while also showing how I want to enjoy my life.
The least detailed part of my mandala is the black sliver. This sliver is small but gets bigger. This is darkness, sadness, anger, and craziness. Darkness can envelop in a person and destroy their mind. It can consume one completely and control one’s thought; this is shown by it going out of the circle.
Another scene reflects common day life and how I try to make everyone happy. I hold a balloon and the people around me are in bad states of mind: sadness, anger, and frustration. Someone can see the beauty of everyday life and show up with a balloon by their side instead of a rain cloud over their head.
Below the fish is a big scene, although it starts with an ocean. The ocean goes out of the circle showing the passing of time and a life of consumable happiness. The man in the boat shows how small he is compared to the ocean. On the left part of this bottom scene is a snake. The snake is darkness as well, but also fear. Fear for life, fear for love, and fear of going crazy. The snake is staring at a figure of me when I’m older. I am happy and successful in what I try to do. I stare at the snake like how I flirt with danger, take risks, and try to understand darkness. If I get upset and give up, the snake eats me. I stay standing on the border of the ocean and occasionally look into darkness.
"Oh you tak' the high road,
and I'll tak' the low road,
and I'll be in Scotland a'fore you.
For me and my true love will never meet again,
on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond"
I strolled down the street that lead to the pier with all my equipment strapped on again, humming the tune and tapping the beat on my drum with my fingertips. The boys had slept in later than me and so I headed out alone, leaving them stumbling out of bed and wiping the tiredness from their eyes. I was anxious to get going and get everything over with.
I started humming the first verse of the song, singing the words in my head. It was a tune written during the rebellion by a Scottish prisoner, to his sweetheart, as most songs are, and although it has a sad tune usually, I gave it a bit of a happier bounce this morning. I took a breath and went into the chorus again. "Oh you tak' the high road..." When I came to the last two lines I started with a little counter-melody "...for me and my true love will never meet again-"
"On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond!" sang out a voice behind me. At first I took it to be Chris, following me down the street, but then I turned around and was surprised to find a boy maybe fifteen years old, with straight, reddish-brown hair, and light, blue-grey eyes. A lopsided smile brightened his entire face. I looked him over and found him wearing the exact same uniform as me, minus the drum. His bearskin hat was tucked under one arm and a fife poked from under his coat.
I raised an eyebrow. "Only an incredibly stupid Englishman, or a very brave Scotsman, would sing that aroond here, ya ken?"
The smile widened. "Weel, ah've heard stupidity and bravery can go hand in hand." He stepped up beside me and we walked together. "But then, I cannae think of anyone else that's braver than me." He thrust a thumb at his own chest and my eyebrow went up again.
"so, you cannae think very hard, and that proves your stupidity." The grin switched from his face to mine momentarily, and then it was back. So this was our missing fifer, and now the Scotsmen in the company's musicians outnumbered the rest.
"You're a quick one, nae doubt. Must be a man of the highlands for that sort of wit." said the boy.
"Aye, and tae know that song, sae must you." I threw back at him. I knew what he was trying to do, it was a game all highlanders played, get the other man to say his name first, so you could determine if your family ever feuded with them or not. I had played it with Campbell, though he never knew it.
This boy gave in easily as well, for he sighed and nodded. "aye, a man of the Cameron clan am I. Alexander Cameron, at your service."
I smiled. that clan was well known for giving the bonnie Prince seven hundred men at the beginning of the 45'. "Well, Alex, if I may call you that, Ah'm pleased tae meet you. MacPherson am I. Daniel, but you can call me Danny."
This time, his eyebrows went up. "MacPherson? You wouldnae be related to the famous C
I happen to love this exercise. Type for a pre-determined amount of time assuming you have no backspace key and your fingers will catch on fire the second you stop. This is what two minutes in my head looks like: The road isn't what I was missing. Close. not quite. Something that moves, sure, but not quite a motorcycle. Music does so much to my brain. Perpetually confused. Perpetually lacking in courage. music solves both. Courage. The great ones had the courage to move the way they wanted. Presented the fundamental threads their own way. universal audience. Found the rhythms that reached them and hurled them in every direction. Ultimate courage, facing everyone's response. Intensely personal. Trust. They trusted something. Ultimate courage, ultimate faith: That not only does one person's voice matter but that MINE matters, and that I'm accountable for its dispersal. Horrifying concept. Irrational. But only irrational because of personal effacement and sense of personal weakness, not genuine lack of worth. In which case, self-effacement is irrational. Self-hatred, irrational. Self-destruction, irrational. Self-deprecation, irrational. If worth is unknown, but depends on participation multiplied by an individual's self-concept, then to willingly nullify either variable with zero is an irrational act, and ultimately ineffecient.Participation X Self-concept = Personal well-being, feeling of self-worth and satisfaction(P) X (S) = Value (personal)Participation without self-affection is worthless. Self-concept with validation is groundless. No value without either. Either can be nullified by zero. MUST attempt. MUST believe yourself worthy of the attempt. Must fail.
I gotta say I'm not typically a writing exercise kind-of guy. In my classes, though, some interesting things always ended up coming out. You just end up writing something ridiculous , doesn't have a great deal of consitency. Oh, and plus there are the wonderful grammatical issues that happen when you don't allow the use of backspace! It's such an eeeevil limitation that just claws at you, because you also know that everyone is going to see this and be like 'ah! comma splice!' After that's finished, though, you might just wonder what you would actually write. Does it have purpose? I mean, it doesn't really need to. That's the wonderful thing about writing: it doesn't matter what you write, so long as you put words on paper, you're writing. I read a book by Natalie Goldberg (can't remember the title, right now) that described writing as a muscle that needs to be stretched. The more you write, the easier it becomes to put words on paper, the easier it flows from fingers to paper (or, in this case, a monitor). You start having conversations with your paper. I actually just tend to write down ridiculous dialogue that made me laugh. Just like this one time I was woken up by my two awesome, uppity, Russian roommates. Oh no, I can't tell that story on here, because I can't tab-indent. Uh-oh, just discovered a bug!
and it's like a
laundry-list of acquaintances,
name-marked and chilled condiments;
squeeze-filled "hello!" embraces
or a clumsy slumberkiss.
impartial sandman relations and
impact to sway an axis;
care without condition,
unbiased opinions or
a scar-free appendage.
siblings. childhood friends.
a domesticated orca,
a drink void of caution,
a late night walk without keys in hand or
a beach in which to submerge my toes and
those scenarios premiering in dreamland;
a well-paid career [or
at least equal to that of a man's].
life without currencysocietyand
without the mundane, routine progression
of green, grey, gone;
singular sentiment, automated sleep,
parents capable of satiety and
a world lacking dishes and trash-taking.
winter white and frigid,
an early completion;
someone to wait on me
without an inevitable aberration.
the assuagement of afterlife, the
divine intervention of hands
the quiet murmur of ideals and desires within
the ear of some orphic entity
presumed to care.
a kiss clean of guilt,
solicitous reassurance, and
a sigh at the stars in the arms of a
it's like you:
something I can never have.
knuckles colliding with wood, fissures of relief. short-lived and the complication is raw: tangled, knotted, red, like this fist. like this fucking sorry heart.the friction rises, flesh inflamed; slowly purpled as a sunset, slowly darkened like my horizon, the future splayed. I reel, surreal, come down I spill and fall. fool. and you wonder why it frayed.juxtaposed and incongruent; I've tried to sate this expectation. he sits in a ribbed cavern, purging out into this hole and I thought it had been sweetness, swore it was a medicine. it rots, allergic to this imitation: this. this. affirmation, all my second plans, all the fall-back-never-should-couldn't-be is left. disappointment seeps, softens all the skin until a simple breath can bruise. a simple fucking implication wounds.you will laugh and I will too, the salted streaks. you will roll your eyes at me and I will rub them until they bleed.
blue fluxes navy
in effervescent splash dances
complacent with your words,
skin pigment laced pink
stains and tinges grey
while trails of liner treadway
fade with your name
still, my head mimics
dramatic scenery within film strips,
of horroresque cinematics
so sluggishly shaking horizontal
still, after weeks proceeding months
in the near completion of one-hundred-days
strings frayed garrote my heart
in utter asphyxiation
and still, my breath undulates
I tiptoe into plasmic veils
and now my shadow seems less vivid,
always careening to outline behind
I don't need a replica,
I just want a friend
A good ol' fashioned concrete poem
This Poem is about many tings. Fire, Dancers, Performances.But it can be interpreted many ways. Tell me how you see it, and why.
P.S. I wrote this in poetry class in high school, and I need some real feedback on this. This is my favorite original piece so far, and I want to improve it. Thanks for the help everyone!