With homage, gratitude, and reverence to Joni Mitchell.

I woke up, and it was a Chelsea morning. The first thing that I heard was a song outside my window… Won’t you stay? We’ll put on the day, and wear it ’til the night comes.

The first thing that I saw was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the walls. Blue, red, green, and gold welcome you… crimson crystal beads beckon. Won’t you stay?

The streets are paved with passersby, and pidgeons fly, and papers lie waiting to blow away.

The sun poured in.  Like butterscotch, it stuck to all my senses.

We’ll put on the day. And we’ll talk in present tenses.

Writing prompt exercise with Haley

Remember how I did those 4 poems that were continuations of lines from Sylvia Plath poems with my bff Haley?

Well just in case you were wondering, Haley published hers as well.

Poem #4

Yesterday was a magnificent, glorious day. The sun was out, it was warm, and for a while Haley and I were just laying on some grass and writing. Her writing prompt was to take a line from a poem by someone famous, then write for about 3 minutes after that in poetry, prose, whatever. We each wrote 4 poems, and I’m posting all of mine. They each begin with a line from a Sylvia Plath poem.

(This one is my favorite :)

—

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
and the moon is only paper,
and the stars are cardboard cutouts
carved by children
to the tune of a rhyme.
And what does that make us:
dolls with stick-on clothes
and polyester hair,
making wishes on those cardboard stars
and making promises by paper moons.

Poem #3

Yesterday was a magnificent, glorious day. The sun was out, it was warm, and for a while Haley and I were just laying on some grass and writing. Her writing prompt was to take a line from a poem by someone famous, then write for about 3 minutes after that in poetry, prose, whatever. We each wrote 4 poems, and I’m posting all of mine. They each begin with a line from a Sylvia Plath poem.

—

Stalemated their armies stood,
with tottering banners:
Weakness like a plague
infested the men, dropping their weapons
and their courage.
Wind carried on it the smell of fear,
and the flags waved
oblivious to the terror below.

Poem #2

Yesterday was a magnificent, glorious day. The sun was out, it was warm, and for a while Haley and I were just laying on some grass and writing. Her writing prompt was to take a line from a poem by someone famous, then write for about 3 minutes after that in poetry, prose, whatever. We each wrote 4 poems, and I’m posting all of mine. They each begin with a line from a Sylvia Plath poem.

—

Winter dawn is the color of metal,
the trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
Industrial heaviness, a cold with menace. Beckoning the fire the color of wood.
Renewable, rekindling iron,
melting and forming bone.
Blowing dust,
manufacturing a cyclone built of steel resolve.

Poem #1

Yesterday was a magnificent, glorious day. The sun was out, it was warm, and for a while Haley and I were just laying on some grass and writing. Her writing prompt was to take a line from a poem by someone famous, then write for about 3 minutes after that in poetry, prose, whatever. We each wrote 4 poems, and I’m posting all of mine. They each begin with a line from a Sylvia Plath poem.

—

With moon-eye, mouth-pipes.
Pipes green.
Pipes water.
Everything a maze,
everything connected.
Once a maze, always a maze.
Once a knot, always a knot.
Once with an eye,
watching the tides awaken and sleep,
watching the ocean yawn and its tributaries trickle.

Continuation of “Soul Symphony”

Find the original “Soul Symphony” post here.

My ears
are fuzzy,
They hear sounds that
aren’t real.

They make a symphony out of a train whistle.

When I’m half asleep.

Somehow, that is me:
my body,
a compilation of  things I know are real and some
imagined.
Things I know are beautiful,
and some that are so piercing that they
wake me up at night.

I wake up to turn a train whistle into a symphony.
I have the power to transform beautiful noise.

But if my alarm goes off….

I am dead to the world.

.

“That fantasy of godlike power only refuses the ways we are constituted, invariably and from the start, by what is before us and outside of us” (Butler).

I have the power to transform beautiful noise. That is, I have the power to transform noise into beauty. That is, I have the responsibility to transform noise into beauty.

This really loud train whistle wakes you up in the middle of the night. Now, everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance. But this isn’t in the distance; it’s right in your fucking back yard. And it’s not even loud enough to actually wake you up, so it just rouses you a little from sleep. That’s the worst, because you can’t make the decision whether to actually wake up, and you can’t go back to sleep, so you just remain in that god-forsaken limbo. You have this body without procedures, so you just can’t know what to do.

Soul Symphony

My ears
are fuzzy,
They hear sounds that
aren’t real.

They make a symphony out of a train whistle.

When I’m half asleep.

Somehow, that is me:
my body,
a compilation of  things I know are real and some
imagined.
Things I know are beautiful,
and some that are so piercing that they
wake me up at night.

I wake up to turn a train whistle into a symphony.
I have the power to transform beautiful noise.

But if my alarm goes off….

I am dead to the world.

Haiku

Sorry for barking:

Noise pollution is not art,

but I cannot stop!

-

Leaves jostle the night,

claim superiority

over the darkness.

-

When the stars are out,

the other side of the moon

is where I will be.

-

Pachydermatous

are the hearts that are stained gray,

the unrequited.

-

Le joue

I wrote a French poem. It goes like this:

Mais maintenant,
le joue est fin,
il est mort,
il s’est cassé
dans les fleurs des etoiles

Translated, it goes like this:

But now,
the game is over,
dead,
hidden
in the flowers of the stars

All

I miss all of my France,
and all of its riots,
all of its wine,
and all of its women.

I miss all of my France,
and all of its rivers,
all of its trains,
and all of its churches.

I miss all of my France,
and all of its people,
all of its change,
and all of its poems.

I miss all of my France,
and all of its cities,
all of its cheese,
and all of its castles.

I miss all of my France,
and all of its dances,
all of its art,
and all its romances.

Down and out

A poem I wrote for class, loosely about/based on the Harlem Renaissance and the bluesy nightclub music that was popular at the time. Think dirty blues– B.B. King, slow and soulful.

———-

This ship has sailed,

This ship has sailed.

This ship has sailed,

And it looks as if we’re doomed to fail.

 

Down and out

Like a beat that’s lost its count

Down and out

It’s been givin’ me so much doubt.

 

This is inferno,

A fire grudging in my veins.

This is my, my inferno,

Takin’ heat for a generation’s chains.

Rain Renewal

In August I felt fall,
and the darker clouds slid over the sky,
like the partition of a limousine.

I recreated it:
a playlist for the passage of seasons,
the sound was a nose wrinkled in laughter.

Eventually I found
there was a long-lost friendship with the fields,
waiting for a rain renewal,
like the rest of us.

The test

Be my guest,
your self-deprecation at its best
is not enough to assure me
that we are equally blessed.

Do your worst,
because I’ll think of me first
and I won’t comply with a
friendship that is cursed.

It’s not a test,
finding who is second best.

PG-13

Keeping time
a beast in a caser of wine
and they’re down on a dime
’til alakazam, there’s a sign.

Life’s a bitch
with yet another broken dish
did you know she’s a witch?
a broom in the back of her mind with a wish.

There’s the spell,
you knew there was never a hell
so now it’s broken I wish you well
and if you don’t want me to I won’t tell.

Not done yet,
I’m still waiting for the threat,
for you to take all that you can get,
then a bit more just for the hell of it.

So much more,
a paper with your philosophical gore
is it worth it for the closed door,
your mind a reaction to the world whore.

Ellipses

Ghostly affection,
fleeting and out of reach,
but… awesome.

Adaptation,
accepting or worth
or lack thereof.

Why not?
Who knows a commitment
or even a contradiction?

And then the feeling is like I’m winning a battle, losing the war.

(Inspired by the movie “Adaptation.”)

Command

Was once,
I was.
New thoughts,
surrender. I’m not.

The “now,”
don’t try.
Please do. Do yes,
do no wrong.
You cannot.

Why not?

Ode to a Connection

Connection.

Curiosity. What to discover today?

Receiving.

Pages, opening to be viewed.

Excitement of loading.

Questioning: status?

Fear.

If you get dropped…

Sending.

One hundred forty emotions, expressed in as many letters.

Waiting for replies.

A rush: tie up loose ends.

Loss.

Disconnection.

~ ~

The Internet is a relationship.

“Who is that man?”

Poem I wrote during a movie in class, where the guy was being driven insane by love (“Death in Venice”). It was inspired in equal parts by that and “Ballad of a Thin Man” by Bob Dylan. It’s really dark, but it’s not about me or anyone I know, which makes it a little better.

Dressed to the nines,
your hair’s all fine,
but there’s something you lack.
You walk to the stairs,
deposit your wares,
you know you’re not coming back.

It’s a sign of the times,
when there are no more rhymes,
but we’ll keep it a secret for now.
They’re all speaking fast,
you can’t decipher the rest,
a universal language you can’t allow.

Ambiguity turned to science,
mathematical, unforseen innocence,
can you understand anything new?
Your technological chatter
is life on a silver platter;
before you know it you’re through.

You utter a silent prayer,
forgetting He’s not there,
beacon to which you firmly cling.
You’ll have to wait
in your frenzied state,
bereft of all but a sense of falling.

The verses you write
may well refelect your plight,
but then how will you cope?
No, all is not lost
but at such a cose
you’ve forgotten all but where to find the rope.

You morph into oblivions
sink to dissatisfaction,
don’t realize the core of your disbelief.
The burden on yourself,
the hazard to your health
your good faith would grant you some relief.

How they are laughing
why are they mocking?
Can’t they see your intentions are true?
Your spiritual cleanse,
it’s your only defence,
but they say you’ll have to pay your dues.

Your fanciest lie
can’t hide in your eye
that black hole of doubt that consumes you.
Hide in your former glory,
your trainwreck of a story,
pay no attention to the trouble that ensues.

The stupor will not wait,
you’re subject to your fate.
There is one locked door to your demise.
You’re willing to let it be
though you alone hold the key,
but you’d rather kick it down with the terror in your eyes.

You feel so old,
it’s your faith that’s grown cold,
hold fast to the resounding sound of pain.
It’s your only hope,
but it’s your life’s rope,
constraining you until you go insane.

Sound

Mallarmé-inspired poem: Sound

As though it was there the whole time,
It could be a beat alone.
Strikes chords within us,
Palpitations around his throne.

It doesn’t have to be audible,
It will be expressed.
A tenor trilling at the top,
He thinks it’s all a test.

Like we’re cathedrals,
A dome for a crown.
His shines and locks like a chord,
It’s here and then it’s gone.

Overtones of a crowd
Lifted feelings in song,
In the ring of a tree,
We sing to lose the smog.

This poem was inspired by Mallarmé’s “Sainte,” which I loved particularly because of the musical references and the last line, “Musician of silences.” I decided to make mine a little more obviously musical. I love that Mallarmé managed to use instruments (mandolin, flute, and harp) but still maintain the aspect of nature (“Magnificat in rivers flowing”), so I tried to do the same thing but with the voice instead of instruments, and the expression of the voice.

La mer

I forget very easily that I live by the ocean. I only remember every once in a while, when I drive over the bridge into town and smell it, or when someone mentions walking to the beach. Even then, I rarely think of it as the “real” ocean. The real ocean has no boundaries, but only limitless horizon. The real ocean is a daunting comfort, mysterious but calming. The real ocean loves you back, because its only other responsibility is lapping at a single visible shoreline.

Our ocean is too busy loving other beaches.

It has too many jobs, too many lover shorlines.

It doesn’t look limitless or mysterious or daunting.

It holds us in.

In,

in with the rain and the clouds.

Like it has a feud for generations,

determined to win by drowning us with the lack of water.

The real ocean

should suffocate us

with its water

and its sky

and its air.

Flash Poetry

Cancel your cable

and meet me on the rooftop

bring your best shoes

and your worst champagne

we’ll never stop.

Poetry, pure poetry.

An excerpt from a poem by Matthew Arnold, called "Dover Beach"

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Kisses.

I plant kisses in the sky,

right between you and I,

but the clouds all take them.

They sparkle like stars,

a thousand shiny scars,

but you never find them.

They pale next to the moon,

try to find their own tune,

and the daylight drowns them.

They are fragile and frail,

but I know they could prevail

if you would only take them.

They’ll blaze a path to you,

you’ll be their rescue,

and together we’ll share them.

Insanely Short Untitled Poem #2

I don’t belieeeeeeve you.

Can you state it from a throne?

Would you take it into battle?

Would it make it on its own?

I don’t believe you.

Untitled Poem #1

I think this is the first original poem I’ve posted. I don’t really like writing poetry, and there’s very little poetry I actually appreciate (sorry, everyone)… so don’t go easy on it!

::::::::::::::

thread in, thread through.

needle in, heart through.

eyes open, staring round,

mind rough, full of sound.

soul search, listen up.

spoken word, shooting up.

say enough, sing away.

lead it on, catch a ray.

lips moving, ears racing.

final count, thoughts abating.