June 2011
2 posts
1 tag
Just a note.
This blog will be put on hold until next NaPoWriMo, April 2012. Little scraps of writing will sometimes be posted in my main blog: [link] as well as my deviantART: [link]
So, farewell ‘til then!
“This is the sadness of the sea—
waves like words, all broken—
a sameness of...”
– William Carlos Williams, from “The Descent of Winter” (via marry-me-young; lademarche)
May 2011
26 posts
2 tags
“And in my dreams I am a drummer boy, hitting heartbeats on ten tin cans, hoping...”
– (via elijahteitelbaum)
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[thisislife]: This Tilled Earth →
elijahteitelbaum:
Something a little different from the type of poetry I usually write:
————
O, brave new world! How weary you do seem,
And in th’Elysian light how pale is your skin –
Like death you are, and not yet ripe your flesh
Is crack’d and torn asunder by a plague.
You reek of mortality’s scent;…
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“If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool...”
– Ray Bradbury (via thechocolatebrigade)
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“Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your...”
– Ernest Hemingway (via intrusive-thoughts)
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To Penny, the Imaginary Horse of Pendennis Castle:
It has been a long while since I first saw you trotting circles on those open grassy stretches; such a while that I wish to avoid counting the years. Instead, I will remember how the salty-sweet winds of the English Channel tugged my shirt sleeves and my pant cuffs with such insistence, towards you; the smooth blue sky of billowing clouds, flecked with swooping swallows; the sun,the high sun that...
1 tag
“I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that...”
– Ernest Hemingway (via strandedstmarkscitylights)
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in dreams
The day has in store flashes of last night’s dreams I don’t recall having. They dash across my vision too suddenly for me to snatch back; today it is the sight of my face, one eye bright and glazed, one opaque and blank. A headache from the distorted view does not know which one to blame.
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prelude of summer
the smell of summer expands so sweetly around me I trip over my breaths— I sense the vacuum in my chest fights for air.
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“I burn, I shiver, out of this sun, into this shadow.”
– The Waves by Virginia Woolf
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“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
– Ernest Hemingway
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“There should be a writing of non-writing. Someday it will come. A brief writing,...”
– Marguerite Duras, from Writing (via proustitute)
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. '
it’s like…
how should I describe it? it’s like
a single seed. almond shaped, delicate
fragile, in a tender way. floating easily
upon the unseen air. and if it had a mind
a sense of itself, it would be so
fucking
lost.
but it isn’t, y’know? because
the seed, it belongs. it is part
of the whole. even in this vast, spaceless
space of a space it floats along,...
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“I do work on it in the evening when the gramophone is playing late Beethoven...”
– Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 18 June 1927, beginning work on The Waves (via proustitute)
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“All poetry is fragment: it is shaped by its breakages, at every turn. It is the...”
– Heather McHugh, from “Broken, as in English: What We Make of Fragments” (via septembrist)
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“You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here’s a hint - ask yourself who wrote...”
– David Levithan and Rachel Cohn (Dash & Lily’s Book of Dares)
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Exquisite corpse.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exquisite_corpse
An idea. Inspired by Pull My Daisy. Maybe with fewer sexual connotations. But maybe not. Who knows. I wonder if it’d work for tumblr though. Maybe if there was some sort of ‘spoiler’ tag. Hmmm.
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Conclusion.
So now, after a couple days to unwind and reflect on the wonders of NaPoWriMo:
I’m still getting over the fact that I actually finished this. I usually fail miserably at marathon-like events like these. But I finished— and it is a happy feeling. Very much so. And I would like to thank the rain, the spiders in my room, night-time craziness, and all the surely-delightful people who...
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Dear me. [day 30]
You are sometimes quite ridiculous in these pursuits of yours; your whimful half-baked ideas are like embers in your mouth that burn and burn and burn, and are quenched by your own saliva. So I hope you never forget this, this glowing coal you did succeed in swallowing whole (though with much coughing and gagging).
Call yourself empty, but as you know, emptiness is white cloths, flapping in the...
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Insomnia. [day 29]
Three o’clock and the night air bites through the paneless window— it is always the chill of these pre-spring nights that lays bare a self’s small woes. Heady are the foggy rays of a streetlight which secretly, I’d like to believe are the soundless songs of the bright sleep-fairy who frolics within her cocoon. Deep is the sleep she does promise oblivion is the spirit she...
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[day 28]
Fingernails grow directly proportional to this urge to rip them off.
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Road's pardon. [day 27]
To the silent sidewalk, obsequiously prostrate at my feet, I say: Arise fair knight your crimes are forgiven, you may once more live and fight and seek glory. But the sidewalk speaks not.
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My word. [day 26]
I refuse I absolutely refuse to leave my perch on the edge of this chair— by the window where the wi-fi is the strongest— I will stay here tapping the backspace key more times than any other until I complete that which I promised myself. Because I’m so close right now I swear I can smell victory.
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barring air resistance. [day 25]
Fg < Fapp to fly: the force of gravity must be exceeded by an upward (outward) force— Fg = mg Fg = (50.0 kg)(-9.81 N/kg) Fg = -470.5 N a girl with assumed mass of 50-kilograms experiences a gravitational force of 471 N downward (inward). Fg < Fapp 471 N < Fapp a girl with assumed mass of fifty kilograms who experiences more than four hundred and seventy-one...
April 2011
38 posts
2 tags
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us...”
– Ira Glass (via teleportal)
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to dig deep. [day 24]
the ground is hard but it is good. so when the blade will not bite, I trust the ground is good. I trust tomorrow’s rain will with nimble fingers undo its knots and I trust below the soil it is kind— kind as worms. this is why I do not drop this shovel.
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A photo of sea week. [day 23]
( You are found in a night alive with people, lost in the warmth of laughing faces. )
Portuguese sounds syrupy amplified in air soft with fanta fizz and beer. The ache
in your legs is comfortable, tucked away at the back of your calves. The blur of talk is cool against the back of your head. You float above a crowd of well-wishers, into the orange...
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“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of...”
– John Keats (via aurai)
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Things I tell myself. [day 22]
Take only edge of the seat and wear light shoes, because some days running is the only way you’ll get anywhere. Don’t try foolish things, like catching rain in plastic bags
because stuff like rain was never meant to be caught. And always always, resist slowing as the wall draws near— the key is to hit it full throttle and make sure your head leaves an imprint on the stones.
8 tags
When the road is empty. [day 21]
i. When the road is empty the sky is empty. The sky must follow the road for the road is an arrow around the sky. When the road is empty the sky is empty and no birds may fly the arrow of the road. ii. She walks alongside in orange angel curls. She walks alongside dragging wet fish in hay nets, and red string ties her shoes. Empty roads are beads strung around her neck. Arrows are beads strung on...
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how to play arpeggios [day 20]
first let each chord crack against naked palms and out of straight-laced hoops & lines that pin their feet to rocks— catch them rising in two closed...
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[day 19]
http://fav.me/d3hqnhv
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Weightlessness. [day 18]
http://fav.me/d3k05m1
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Versification
intotherosegarden:
In the versification section of the Norton Anthology of Poetry they’ve boiled it down to a science and if you follow the recipe you might just be able to write something worthy of entrance to the Women’s Institute fete I have always been of the opinion that recipes are handy but true scientists experiment
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a thousand prayers
from valley folds and mountains
flocks of paper cranes
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Your white days. [day 17]
‘i cried because my skin was so red, rust red, against your white palms, i cried because we could not bleach the colour from the shot. It still smokes like vodka on my throat.’ ‘You do not cry because to me you gave your last blue breath to tucked in a corner of my lungs. You cannot cry because my throat is unopen.’ ‘The room buzzes calmly, but i wonder what it...
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La coyote. [day 16]
She tugged at frayed cuffs of tired jeans all too willing to sag to her touch— then left as the rain-chilled wind laughed up the length of his legs.
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