October 3, 2011
a note to ms. plath (poem part iv)
Did it feel like you were climbing a staircase?
A staircase that was halved and bent and broken?
Did it feel like the sequins of your life had gone from streamlined and systematized to scattered and stained?
We can still smell your pale characters, fading into dark shelves,
And we feel like whistling and hollering and yelling for them,
But it is of inconsequential importance,
Because what was once burgundy is now ash gray
And what was once crimson is now burnt leather brown.
That night you inhabited the Bell Jar, the world went soft and fuzzy and mute,
like we were all somehow underwater.
We never knew of your condition, Sylvia.
You disappeared, your mouth curiously half-open with a question.
We just thought you were hungry for the stars.
October 4, 2011
Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
October 19, 2011
“The small conflict in the poem is symbolic of a larger conflict in life. One part of the sensitive, thinking person would like to give up his life to the enjoyment of beauty and art. But another part is aware of larger duties and responsibilities - responsibilities owed, at least in part, to other human beings. The speaker in the poem would like to satisfy both impulses.”
Is it weird to be in love with your English textbook…?
October 29, 2011
I believe I am still playing House.
I am the caged bird,
Subject to thievery of the heart and a charcoal rain -
Bleak and grimy like smudged ink prints.
I am glued to the window pane -
One with the mold and the shapes and the shadows.
Yet on the other side of the glass, there I am.
Sailing the mountains, climbing the drunken trees,
Singing with the hum of the crickets.
I am a golden sea. I am bare hands. I am a barrel of green apples.
I am a book of Neruda lying expectantly on a bedside table.
But the vision is tainted.
I am trapped inside this plastic manor -
Well-mannered, courteous, dull.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
Outside my steel confinement.
But I wasn’t able to open the front door.
-Addy
(via banfred)
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#original #poetry
November 4, 2011
outside
do you hear the rain?
if you are still, if you are silent
(for a moment, just for a moment)
you will hear it,
like a soft cry.
oh the muted sound of beauty.
stop for a moment.
you will sense the subtle movement
on the other side of the glass.
slide the pane. slide the pain away,
and drink the tears of God.
December 14, 2011
a walk in the remnants of the rain
bus stops: 79, 71, 55.
doors swish.
heavy boots.
boulevard to boulevard.
movement — lurches like a waltz.
hidden beneath the dejected hood.
eyes on his feet.
rows of colored dots; squint.
headlights, traffic lights,
the harsh light of music on his face.
a cold, blue glow,
a dark, dead glow.
his empty eyes; his frozen heart.
a walk in the remnants of the rain.
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#inspired by a guy walking on barranca and culver #poetry
January 15, 2012
Bye bye birdy
The birds littered the street.
Little gray puddles of fuzz,
As if God (Himself) had ordered them to drop,
To lie in stillness on the wet tar.
February 4, 2012
what lies beneath
Sad-eyed shadows fall on the concrete:
Two broken-down heroes, sweet and shy.
Naked, they appear,
Naked against the brick tenements.
The windows wink at the black mass of men —
The broken-down shadows, shy and sweet.
Yet the shadows lack the muscled roots within:
The battered brains,
The feverish skulls,
Hot with confusion,
Fiery with half-scrambled opinions.
The shadows lack the sobs from within:
The rotten souls,
The twisted nerves,
The chiseled hearts.
The mass of men can walk past the brick tenements,
Past the winking windows.
The mass of men can run from fading light,
And disappear among the hilltops ‘neath the moon’s toothy grin.
But the men, themselves —
The men can never hide.
February 10, 2012
Nighttime
I think you must have dissolved when you asked,
“Hey now, what’s this thing we’re all doing in this sad brown world?”
You made me realize that life is not always:
Fine wine and dine; you’re mine.
Sometimes the pure sky of the vanilla night is actually a cratered sea.
And though some believe in a holy castle somewhere up there, somewhere out there —
I now realize that we do not hold the compass.
We never have.
We never will.
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#poetry #original #i don't really get it either
April 26, 2012
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
This poem is brilliant and it flows so perfectly and I just read the entire thing out loud to myself ahhhhh.
May 26, 2012
When we are long gone
Years from now, when we are long gone,
All that will remain of our existence
Are archaic gas pumps under the ocean.
Sharks will weave between Diesel Only and the Easy Mart,
Starfish will cling to Station 4,
And plankton will kiss the underbelly of an abandoned jalopy.
Years from now, when we are long gone,
All that will remain of our existence
Are stacks of books hidden in the valleys between peaks,
Giant towers of Shakespeare and the Holy Bible,
Snaking up to the cratered moon.
Years from now,
Steadfast plastic bags will roam the earth,
Consistently unsatisfied, searching for loud lights and bright noise.
Years from now,
The clothes we worked so hard to keep clean will wait patiently on the side of the road,
Huddled masses, they will sleep.
For we are not coming back to get them.
June 3, 2012
The Blunder is to estimate —
Eternity is Then.
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#emily dickinson #poetry #eternity #quotes #literature
