Tag Archives: Poetry

I’m Overwhelming You

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obsession

And I don’t mean to do it,

But I’m well aware I do.

It’s borderline obsession

this ambiguity over you

And I have no real reason

No way I can explain

The emotions I am feeling

Or why I act this way

It’s like my reason’s gone

I’m at sea without an oar

Where’s logic when I need it?

I can’t find it anymore.

And it appears quite funny

Maybe ironic too

That this absurd obsession

Keeps me away from you

 

Yep. Hope your lives are going well.

 

A Challenge from Hayley

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Hayley G. Hoover, one of my favorite YouTubers, posted a poetry writing prompt on her blog:

“In your poem, include at least fourteen of the following items: a statistic, a dish eaten cold, three forms of heat, a smell you can’t forget, a line from a movie, something out of a textbook, two things you wish you had said, a reference to an aunt or uncle, some kind of moving vehicle, two words beginning with R and ending with “-ion”, a stage direction, two distinct hours of the day, an historical figure, an adhesive, an animal only seen up close in the zoo, a slang expression (“call it quits,” for example), something really bad that you did, something that undermines or negates everything else you’ve said.”

I managed to fit all the items in. Here’s my poem

“Here’s looking at you, kid” he said

Toasting success to the best- the two of us.

And I didn’t respond, despondent silence

Louder than any shout, I hesitated.

I should have spoken, said something

Bring my congratulations to the surface

instead of mirthless fear but I didn’t.

I should’ve said “To us!” “Mazel tov!”

“I love you,” true every one. I said nothing.

 

Pungent, like fish weeks past their prime,

he stared at me, the world a train moving

Removing any distance between us

As I ate an 8 o’clock spaghetti at midnight,

Cold in a way no microwave or stove could restore,

Fiery glances passed between us, like a gust

Of death, come to cheer up the evening

that had begun so well, now gone bananas.

 

FDR said fear fears itself. I disagree

Revelation of reintegration between words and mouth

brought out this response: “Let us digress

to a non-relative discussion, percussion

Reverberation of static and non-static existence.”

I feared myself, my heart

No uncle, cousin, sister brother, father,

mother- dearer was he and I said

Nothing. And I was 72% sure I loved you.

 

End scene, drop the curtain down

Drown out the sorrowful glance of rhino

Behind glass at the zoo, so close

I could reach out and touch it, if it were real.

Reality gone haywire, clinging like duct tape,

Absorbing everything. I take it back,

it’s better I stay silent, reliant quiet

in face of the tangles of the unrealities

Unraveling in my head. Better to say nothing.

 

 

Hope you enjoyed! Any comments, questions, or critics are appreciated.

Sylvia Plath

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“Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide…” -John Dryden

A fine example of this is found in the poet, Sylvia Plath. Her life was scarred from the beginning by the death of her father. He died from complications relating to the amputation of his leg. Plath blamed her father for his own death, claiming that his carelessness about his health was the same thing as suicide. Upon first receiving news of his demise, young Sylvia proclaimed “I’ll never speak to God again” Interestingly, one of her most famous works was entitled “Daddy”.

As she grew up, she used writing as a way to express her emotions, mostly through journaling. It wasn’t until college that Plath began to find her voice. During this time, Plath found moderate success publishing her work in magazines and newspapers.  A series of incidents including a rejection letter from a writing program, severe insomnia, relationships with abusive men, and a panic attack all led to a severe case of depression. She was treated with electroconvulsive therapy, which only made things worse. She attempted to kill herself, but was thwarted. She spent several months in a mental health facility. This pattern of feverous spurts of writing followed by severe bouts of maniac depression was one that followed her throughout her entire life. Prior to her death, Plath had written about 40 poems in 4 months, often writing 2 a day. She killed herself at the age of 30.

Speaking of suicide, Plath said “If you have no past or no future, which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide. But the cold reasoning mass of gray entrail in my cranium which parrots, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ whispers that there is always the turning, the upgrade, the new slant. And so I wait.”

Now, obliviously I disagree with Plath on…well, most fundamental issues. However, she truly was a brilliant writer. Here are some of my favorite quotes from her poetry as well as from her book, The Bell Jar:

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”

“Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.”

“I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.”

“Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.”

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn.”

“There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It’s like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction–every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it’s really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour.”

“That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.”

“I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.”

“I knew chemistry would be worse, because I’d seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.”

“I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.”

“Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.”

“There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.”

“Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self – – like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.”

“…we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.”

“I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can’t be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head. Love is an illusion, but I would willingly fall for it if I could believe in it. Now everything seems either far and sad and cold, like a piece of shale at the bottom of a canyon – or warm and near and unthinking, like the pink dogwood.”

“I love him to hell and back and heaven and back, and have and do and will”

“I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”

“With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand … hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.”

 

 

I did not fall in love

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I did not fall in love today, as someone said I should.

It’s not for lack of trying, though. I would have if I could.

The air was just a bit too thick. The atmosphere was sour.

Why, never could I fall in love when all is grim and dour!

 

I did not fall in love today, despite a desperate cry.

It seemed for every kind “Hello!”, I received a rude goodbye.

The sun was just a wee too bright. The flowers were too gay.

Why who could ever fall in love on a day like today?

 

I did not fall in love today. Why should I, if you please?

Love is a hardy illness that brings great men to their knees.

Luckily, I’ve had my shots. My record’s up to date.

I’m immune to all its tricks. My health chart is first rate.

 

I did not fall in love today. What is that to you?

My mother would be quite ashamed were I as rude, it’s true!

All matters of the heart should be good and left alone

Instead of being written down through gossip’s gramophone.

 

A work in progress piece of my poetry! (Update: I don’t why this didn’t show up until today. Glitch?)

Oh by the way…

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I forgot to mention it, but I’m totally doing BEDA. I’m a loser with no life and no friends so I may as well devote my time to the internet 😛 Just kidding! (or am I….?)

For the uninitiated, BEDA is Blog Everyday in April. This will be the third year I’ve done it. I love BEDA for the same reason I love NaNoWriMo or Drawtober or any other monthly challenge. It gives me a tangible goal for my creativity. I try to mix it up and post things from poetry to lists to explanations on why I like Highlander: The Quickening even though it was a horrendous mess of blah-ness. If  you have a topic you would like me to blog about, feel free to share it.

That is all! 🙂 See ya tomorrow

My Lethologica Love

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*This was an idea for one of the letters in my novel, but it didn’t quite match the flow of the rest of the book. I really enjoyed though so I wanted to share. Enjoy! 😀

Sometimes I wonder if you’re real- if we’re real. I mean you could easily be something I dreamed up in boredom or loneliness or sadness. And by you, I don’t mean the physical, tangible you who was born in September and is allergic to the nightshade family. I mean the you I’m in love with.

Yes, love. That overused word that is supposed to express the strongest of all human emotions (except for hate, but that’s a different story). I love you, or at least a facsimile.

The you I’m in love with shares many traits with the real you. He’s a skinny beanpole with ulotrichous hair. He’s loud, opinionated, and sometimes obnoxious. More than anything, he wants to have fun.

But there are differences too. Like the fact that the you I’m in love with loves me back. Sometimes he sends me silly notes for no reason at all. He sees “us” as a possibility, not an abstract concept. And I know that’s not real.You don’t think like that.

I wonder if I’m being ridiculous. Probably. And it’s even worse that I wish you were being ridiculous too.

Sometimes I see it, like dust mites that appear suspended in the light of the fading sun. We lock eyes and suddenly nothing else matters. We banter back and forth. We laugh at the same jokes. But it’s sphallolalia. All light and no substance, gone as soon as you blink.

Your love is lygerastiac. It’s in the dark, quiet moments. Would it take so very much to make it grow? Or would it shrivel and die in the sight of the world?

But then I remember that’s not really you. That’s the you I’m in love with. Maybe it’s something that I want so badly that I turn you into what you’re not. That isn’t fair- to you or me.

My heart is filipendous, and sooner or later it’s going to fall. Illusions shatter with time and paper love burns in the fires of reality. I’ll let go before I get hurt and leave you with your autolatry love. We’ll both be better off.

More Poetry

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So, for those of you who don’t know, I often think in poetry. (I can also have entire conversations in iambic pentameter so…) Basically, what this translates to is a notebook full of poems that may or may not be relevant to anyone, including myself. But through the magic of the internet, I now have a place to share my work and victims…er readers to enjoy it. Bwahahahahaha. So without further ado, a poem:

I love the way you smirk when I say “Perhaps”

It’s a lapse in my reason, treason to my heart

Starting a revolution, full of convolutions, pollution

Of my freedom, ending a reign of sending suitors flying

Replying, “I’m better off alone.”

 

I love the way you expertly play at my heart-strings

Ringing them like a bell. I’m no hard sell, I’m gone

Belonging to you wholly, lulling my mind

Into kind thoughts of mankind, a blindness I despise

And realizing the double face I’ve placed over

The common sense I held dear.

 

You’re a sore boring into the core of me.

Is it a tragedy, this strange malady claiming me?

No turning back. I lack rearview mirrors. And tears

Pour from my eyes, a surprise when you know

The passionate joy within.