numbers falling into place
stretched across nine tiles
squinting, staring at the page
frustrated shavings
tiny tears on thick paper
yellowed with age
a riddle never solved
always rearranged,
but never thrown away
numbers dotted in
what looks like random
order but organized chaos
long minutes spent pouring
over possibilities, searching
for a four that has been
misplaced
kicked around by
excited success for
solving the sevens
carelessly tossed in a
corner on a
baseless guess
that four,
which you so rudely
pushed into a square
upon sight of another,
won't return to your memory
not until the end
when it will do
the most damage
Thursday, January 23, 2014
chris [voice]
man i was at this party
and this dude came up on me
and i said back up dude
he was so fucking rude
i'm fucking with you man
god i am so drunk
and i was blackout, damn
smoking on that skunk
(what'd you do?)
do? i fucking punched him
but i was so drunk man
man what was that guy's name?
carver or some shit
he was wearing a fucking suit
i told him to get the fuck down
but he didn't go on his own
(what'd you do?)
i don't even remember man
(no seriously, what'd you do?)
i don't even remember man
this dude came up to me
man i was at this party
he was so fucking rude
i told him to back the fuck up dude
(shut up and chug this beer)
and this dude came up on me
and i said back up dude
he was so fucking rude
i'm fucking with you man
god i am so drunk
and i was blackout, damn
smoking on that skunk
(what'd you do?)
do? i fucking punched him
but i was so drunk man
man what was that guy's name?
carver or some shit
he was wearing a fucking suit
i told him to get the fuck down
but he didn't go on his own
(what'd you do?)
i don't even remember man
(no seriously, what'd you do?)
i don't even remember man
this dude came up to me
man i was at this party
he was so fucking rude
i told him to back the fuck up dude
(shut up and chug this beer)
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
got a rat by her tail [replacement]
A Dog Has Died By Pablo Neruda
My rat has cried. I grabbed her in the cage next to a wooden monster chew.
Some how I've hurt her right there, and now she's running around with her saggy skin, her black eyes and her bleeding tail, and I, the sadist, who never wished for any hard times in their lives for any intelligent pet, I pray for a tail that'll never reappear. Yes, I wish for a tail for Zelda where her stump slithers away for my arrival
slipping her rat-like tail in disappointment.
Ai, I'll not admit it here on earth, of pulling the tail of a companion who was only hungry. Her disgust for me, after that of a dog without its trust, was the ugliness of a wench, bitter, with no more eagerness than was pulled for, with no complications: she always peed all over my sheets covering me full of her droplets or her gnawing, she never bit down against my mouth like curious rats scavenging for food.
No, my rat used to leer at me, begging me "the freedom I want", the care called to create an animal lover like me crave that, her a rat, I was pathetically codependent, but, without those ears so much cuter than mine, I'd keep on gasping at her with a glance that discovered, for me alone, all her selfish and scavenging life, always near Algernon, never asking her and taking everything.
Ai, how many nights have I spied her tail as she bounced around on the heads of the companions in the secluded corner of Investment One where the excited rats climbed the walls and my dumbo rat was stealing about all of the sustenance of the cage's supply: my curious thief, snuffling around with her pointed nose buried down, bowl to hide "without the others' knowledge".
Selfish, selfish, selfish, as naturally prey know how to stay alive with only the anatomy of their faceless parent.
There are no tears for my rat who has cried, and we don't know and never did cling to each other.
So now she's out and I freed her, and that's all there is to it.
My rat has cried. I grabbed her in the cage next to a wooden monster chew.
Some how I've hurt her right there, and now she's running around with her saggy skin, her black eyes and her bleeding tail, and I, the sadist, who never wished for any hard times in their lives for any intelligent pet, I pray for a tail that'll never reappear. Yes, I wish for a tail for Zelda where her stump slithers away for my arrival
slipping her rat-like tail in disappointment.
Ai, I'll not admit it here on earth, of pulling the tail of a companion who was only hungry. Her disgust for me, after that of a dog without its trust, was the ugliness of a wench, bitter, with no more eagerness than was pulled for, with no complications: she always peed all over my sheets covering me full of her droplets or her gnawing, she never bit down against my mouth like curious rats scavenging for food.
No, my rat used to leer at me, begging me "the freedom I want", the care called to create an animal lover like me crave that, her a rat, I was pathetically codependent, but, without those ears so much cuter than mine, I'd keep on gasping at her with a glance that discovered, for me alone, all her selfish and scavenging life, always near Algernon, never asking her and taking everything.
Ai, how many nights have I spied her tail as she bounced around on the heads of the companions in the secluded corner of Investment One where the excited rats climbed the walls and my dumbo rat was stealing about all of the sustenance of the cage's supply: my curious thief, snuffling around with her pointed nose buried down, bowl to hide "without the others' knowledge".
Selfish, selfish, selfish, as naturally prey know how to stay alive with only the anatomy of their faceless parent.
There are no tears for my rat who has cried, and we don't know and never did cling to each other.
So now she's out and I freed her, and that's all there is to it.
Monday, January 20, 2014
poetry response #3
Alright, so I really liked both of these poems. "homage to my hips" made me smile because it brought back growing up with my mom and how she always joked around that black women have big hips and how proud they were of it (I'm black so it's okay to say stuff like that?). The poem is almost a representation of freedom and the ability to do what you want. The particular "enslavement" line didn't mean anything besides what it said until I found out that the author was African American, which I feel like says something about the way our society is (or some faulty wiring in my brain). It's a poem about empowerment which is a cool thing to think about because how often do people find courage in their bodies so openly?
"A Woman Who Could Not Live With a Faulty Heart" really spoke to me because it was borderline cynical and used some serious imagery to un-romanticize "feelings of the heart", something that I do frequently. I thought at first that the narrator was talking about a heart that's torn between two ideas, two emotions, two people but then I wondered if she literally meant "a faulty heart" as in a unsteady rhythm, a heart murmur or something of the like. A heart where something extreme could happen and her heart could could be still. Still, the narrator laments the beating of her heart - "a constant pestering" - which makes me wonder if the narrator was so torn by whatever decision that she was teetering on self-destruction. Why else would someone call their heartbeat pestering?
I don't know, I think the images created are meant to be dark and set the mood for you to really understand how a heart physically works. But I think that it's a representation of the futility of life = constantly a struggle between what you want and what you don't want and in the end you'll die soon. This is a sharp juxtaposition of "homage to my hips" which is really saying "i can do whatever i want to, watch me seduce this guy". Two very different poems that used repetition in a similar way to produce a different outcome. Am a fan, 10/10, would read again
"A Woman Who Could Not Live With a Faulty Heart" really spoke to me because it was borderline cynical and used some serious imagery to un-romanticize "feelings of the heart", something that I do frequently. I thought at first that the narrator was talking about a heart that's torn between two ideas, two emotions, two people but then I wondered if she literally meant "a faulty heart" as in a unsteady rhythm, a heart murmur or something of the like. A heart where something extreme could happen and her heart could could be still. Still, the narrator laments the beating of her heart - "a constant pestering" - which makes me wonder if the narrator was so torn by whatever decision that she was teetering on self-destruction. Why else would someone call their heartbeat pestering?
I don't know, I think the images created are meant to be dark and set the mood for you to really understand how a heart physically works. But I think that it's a representation of the futility of life = constantly a struggle between what you want and what you don't want and in the end you'll die soon. This is a sharp juxtaposition of "homage to my hips" which is really saying "i can do whatever i want to, watch me seduce this guy". Two very different poems that used repetition in a similar way to produce a different outcome. Am a fan, 10/10, would read again
Thursday, January 16, 2014
a chair is just a chair [image]
resting, coiled energy surging through the stationary wood
force is pressed to the back rest,
a deep turquoise, dotted with a glorious display of last meals
to swing the chair back, balancing on the small sweet spot
the cushion comfortably supports you
like a flexible branch, tempting your leafy green to the greedy wind
not too hard, not too soft
a sanctuary for mediocrity with just a hint of fashion
it simultaneously represents obesity and comfort
the sharp juxtaposition of sluggish and commonplace
why does anyone have chairs?
is it possible it's because there is an expectation for comfort?
no one told you to make yourself at home
and no one told you you could have whatever you wanted
and yet you expect that dark teal, four-legged representation of laziness
to hold you for five hours while you waste your life away staring at a screen
force is pressed to the back rest,
a deep turquoise, dotted with a glorious display of last meals
to swing the chair back, balancing on the small sweet spot
the cushion comfortably supports you
like a flexible branch, tempting your leafy green to the greedy wind
not too hard, not too soft
a sanctuary for mediocrity with just a hint of fashion
it simultaneously represents obesity and comfort
the sharp juxtaposition of sluggish and commonplace
why does anyone have chairs?
is it possible it's because there is an expectation for comfort?
no one told you to make yourself at home
and no one told you you could have whatever you wanted
and yet you expect that dark teal, four-legged representation of laziness
to hold you for five hours while you waste your life away staring at a screen
poetry response #2
I think the reptition used in "DNA" by Bierds serveas a literary device to instill these images into your mind to make them as concrete as possible. From the way the poem ends, I almost feel like it's giving a sharp litle jab to those who work with DNA, maybe prodding them a little in accusation of "playing God". The narrator seems to be a scientist constructing a model of DNA in London, February 1953. Upon further inspection, I found that this was the date when Crick and Watson declared in a pub that they had "discovered the secret of life" (citation needed). What's really fascinating about this poem is the way that it's structured. It seems that the base pairing of DNA is used to structure part/most of this poem. Coincidence? I think not. GC, AT as the pairs, A - cloud white, the scissors, T- At hand :the rounded shapes, G - two dozen toothpick pegs, a vial of amber glue, C - he's at play, James Watson: the cardboard shapes. In the next stanza, the order is G, (new line A), C, (new line T). Next, A, (new line G), T, (new line C) and so on. I was confused by the amount of repeats, but it shows the wit of the author, to be able to come up with images and specific phrasing to repeat to simulate base pairings in the DNA code.
The other three poems seemed the most similar to me, though "DNA" showed some similar elements as well. "A Dog Has Died" explores the grief behind losing a pet dog, "I Go Back to May 1937" deals with the grief of love struck teenagers and the "real" adults they would become, and "Loading a Boar" goes in-depth of the grief of life in general. Each lament their woes - "I'll not speak of sadness here on earth", "you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of", "nothing's going right and I'm feeling half dead" - and, in some way, each accept their fate. After celebrating the good times, the narrator of "A Dog Has Died" accepts the death of his best companion and admits that his dog is now just buried out in the garden. The narrator of "1937" examines young love, commenting on the pleasing setting that create the rift in time from whence he was born - the meeting of his parents. He calls them young and dumb and naive and yet does not want to stop their meeting because he wants to be born and he has accepted history for what it is - a bundle of experiences that shape you into the form you have in the present day. "Loading a Boar" is written in a much simpler form - a run-on sentence. My curiosity lies in the author's choice. Did it more effectively convey his point? The poignant advice on poetry made me rethink the process completely and I sat down to consider poetry more thoughtfully after that. I hope to use the advice of John some day to write a poem that means that much to me.
The other three poems seemed the most similar to me, though "DNA" showed some similar elements as well. "A Dog Has Died" explores the grief behind losing a pet dog, "I Go Back to May 1937" deals with the grief of love struck teenagers and the "real" adults they would become, and "Loading a Boar" goes in-depth of the grief of life in general. Each lament their woes - "I'll not speak of sadness here on earth", "you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of", "nothing's going right and I'm feeling half dead" - and, in some way, each accept their fate. After celebrating the good times, the narrator of "A Dog Has Died" accepts the death of his best companion and admits that his dog is now just buried out in the garden. The narrator of "1937" examines young love, commenting on the pleasing setting that create the rift in time from whence he was born - the meeting of his parents. He calls them young and dumb and naive and yet does not want to stop their meeting because he wants to be born and he has accepted history for what it is - a bundle of experiences that shape you into the form you have in the present day. "Loading a Boar" is written in a much simpler form - a run-on sentence. My curiosity lies in the author's choice. Did it more effectively convey his point? The poignant advice on poetry made me rethink the process completely and I sat down to consider poetry more thoughtfully after that. I hope to use the advice of John some day to write a poem that means that much to me.
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