Sapphics, the Unknown Form

So, I'm a little stressed right now. I kind of procrastinated on getting my presentation for my poetry class ready. It's due next week. I thought I would have enough time. Until I found out that apparently the sapphic is not a popular enough poetic form to be in any of the major poetry books. But a spoonerism is!

The very fact that my spellcheck thinks that sapphic is spelled wrong, but is totally okay with spoonerism, kind of tells you something...

And I have to make this presentation half an hour long... I have a feeling I'm not going to do very well on it. But tomorrow I'll go to my school library and check out the few books that might help. I'm crossing my fingers that they might even mention sapphics, let alone go into details with them. Even our class text book, which we can use but not include as a resource, just mentions it in passing. I have no idea how I'll get this done. Apparently no one cares about this form.

Anyway, back to research.

Sestinas...

Reading breaks are fabulous... I should really be doing more reading...

I actually only have three days off this reading break, because I was working on Monday, and I work Friday and Saturday... And I kind of wasted those three days off. I did do homework. I'm working on my poems, and all but one are coming along very well. I really hate sestinas. I really, really do. I just cannot get a nice flowing poem when I'm forced to reuse words. I cannot get a narrative without it sounding choppy and repetitive. And I'm having a lot of trouble just fitting imagery in, though the form isn't completely to blame for that.

And I still have an essay to write. I'm struggling over that even more. Poem has too much structure and form, but English doesn't have enough. The guidelines for the essay is to write an essay on a poem we've talked about. I know this is fairly normal for higher level courses, so be able to see a theme and write an essay around it. But we're not supposed to use outside sources, and I'm assuming it has to be on one poem, not a poet or a collection of poems. Ugh. Poetry. It'll be the death of me.

So I'll try and get at least the sestina done by Tuesday. What I have so far is already better than my previous one, but I know it's just going to crumble as I struggle to come up with new things to say... I never thought I would miss free verse so much.

Teach Me to Say No

I'm so sorry for the lack of updates this week! I swear, I was about to do one on Tuesday, but I was just so tired. To make up for it, I'll have a rant and a poem!

First off, I was called into work on Sunday. This in itself is rather annoying, since I had plans that day. But I am a good employee, and they were desperate. The thing is, I wasn't called into Starbucks. I was called into Safeway to work as a cashier.

For clarity for anyone who does not know, I work in a Starbucks located inside of a Safeway. That means I'm hired by Safeway, but all my training is for Starbucks. Luckily, our tills are the same, so all I had to learn on the actual till was coupons. I was given a sheet with all the codes of the produce and other bulk items, but the only thing I can remember the code for is bananas. Then people would ask for smokes, and I have no idea what anything is. They'll ramble off a name and I would have to get them to repeat it about twice more. Then they would normally have to come over to the service desk and point me to the right cupboard.

But in the end, it really wasn't that hard. It was busy during the day, since school was just getting in after the teacher's strike, so a ton of parents were finally buying lunch food for their kids. By about 9:30 it really died down though, and I got off at 11. I think we need to get everyone from the Starbucks to work a late shift as a cashier just once, so that they'll stop complaining about having to work until 8:15 for a closing shift at Starbucks.

And although I said it really wasn't that bad, I would never want to work as a cashier. My knees and legs were killing me after that, because I couldn't walk around. I never realized how easy Starbucks was on my knees, despite having to do some heavy lifting, and constantly having to bend down to grab stuff. Just standing in one spot is hard.

But enough of that. Here is the poem I promised. I had to write it for my creative writing class, but it has not been edited or revised in any way.

No

Teach me to say no.
To politely decline a request
or to outright be a bitch.
Teach me to be guiltless.
To Hell with compassion,
though I'll keep my integrity.

Teach me to be the last
rays of sunshine
on the final day of summer,
when everyone begs
me to stay, but my time is up.

Teach me to be the first leaf to brown,
to wither and shrivel
then glide peacefully to the ground.
Do not let me be the last one
that clings to the branch
as if to make a difference to the tree

Teach me to be a cat.
Not a follower.
Not a leader.
And individual
stubborn enough
to do what I please.

Teach me to relax,
to stop caring about
everyone and everything.
I am the brightest fire
that burns up first.
The sprinter
in a long distance race.
The sunset
on the longest day of the year
The last leaf
that cannot fall.
The final defender
when all others have fled.
I'm tired, I'm done.
But I cannot say no.

In Reply

(read this post first)

In Reply

Hello Brain. I'm sorry I left. I wandered off, and just kept wandering. I got lost, and no one came. But I've been pointed in the right direction, and I'm coming back. The road is long and I've accumulated some thorns, perhaps more than is justified. They can be broken, much easier than I will be. Because you see, I'm not afraid anymore. I'm out of practice, but I will learn. I have forgotten, but I will remember. I was content, but now I am happy. Thank you.
-Heart

The Long Lost Roommate

Whoops, I forgot that yesterday was Thursday. But believe it or not, I actually had a social life! It was kind of an accident, actually. But onto some writing!

The Long Lost Roommate

Hey Heart, it's me, Brain. I know you've been off chasing wild dreams and fawning over useless junk, but I need you to come back now. Dreams are great, but should really be left to me, and I know you just absolutely love that video game, and all those books, but you really need to get focused. You're a Heart. You were meant to love, but objects and dreams cannot love you back. I know you're a little out of practice, but take it a step at a time. Then start running. I know you can do it. You were so affectionate when we were younger, what happened? And don't give me all that bullshit about no one loving you, or that you're just too shy, or that you have no time. You have a great life, you're really not that shy, and you have more time than you think. That is, if you don't waste it. Time is passing, we're aging, and it's only going to get harder. So come back to me, Heart. Listen to Brain for once. Love isn't that scary.

A Note from Me to You

I realize it's been a while since I posted any of my writing. So I'm going to crack open the ol' 'Things to Write About' book and start at it again.

A Note From Me to You

It's been a long time.
I would say six, maybe seven years?
Of course, I'm still here.
You give me a nod of acknowledgment
every time you laugh
every time you cry
every time you make a fool of yourself.
But I'm dying.
If you do not let me back
the person you are,
who you used to be,
will die too.
All you need to do is
remember
the long summer days
and cold winter nights.
When time was judged by breakfast, lunch and dinner
or the setting of the sun.
You remember what the sun is, right?
You hide behind a glowing screen now.
Your laughter is three letters long
and rarely more than a smile.
You remember what a smile is, right?
It's not a colon and a sideways D.
It's a brightening of the eyes
and genuine happiness made visible.
You remember what happiness is, right?
It's your childhood.
And I'm dying.

Healthy!

This flu didn't even last a week. How nice. Maybe I am growing an immunity.

Anyway, a while ago I said I would post some pictures of my concrete poetry if I was able to get a picture. Well, my professor finally posted the pictures, so here they are!

Sorry, they're a little small and hard to read. Here is what each of them says,

Look at the world through my eyes, and see not the perfection, but the flaws of a broken world

That was a ventie decaf two thirds sweet no foam one and a half shot one ninety degree skinny peppermint mocha with whip

The body blamed the personality, the personality blamed the body, the heart was torn between the two while the mind started it all.

Laziness and Poetry

I tried to update the blog this morning, but for some reason Blogger wasn't working. It's running fine now though! I wrote several small poems for school a few days ago, so I'll share them now. They're not my best work, I know, but I seem to have trouble writing small things.

For some background, the first three poems are Tankas, which are traditional Japanese poems similar to Haikus, but a bit longer.  The final three poems are much more modern and came about because of Twitter. You basically have to write a poem in 140 characters or less.

That was a venti

decaf two thirds sweet no foam

one and a half shot

one ninety degree skinny

peppermint mocha with whip

when the late sun sets,

the winter winds start to gust,

and heat drains away,

that is the magical time

when frappuccinos come out.

sickly sweet syrup

steaming milk and grinding beans

overflowing pots

and crash there goes the tower

of precarious dishes

One hundred and forty characters do not add up to much, so better not waste them on idle thought. I can write an inspirational quote or a beautiful rhyme. But here is the e-

The true meaning of sacrifice is going without a scarf in the middle of winter to make room for a book in your bag.

The smell of ink and untouched paper, the crack of a spine and smooth jacket under your fingers, the odd look from strangers as you bury your face in a book and sniff.

Norman/Norman

It's Tuesday! I nearly forgot... And I'm tired, so let's get back into the swing of me posting school work! It's a good thing I'm a creative writing student, or that would be very boring... Here is a quick poem I wrote for class. We were supposed to come up with an ancestor and write five lines with as much detail as possible, then the final line is supposed to link myself to the ancestor.

He stands straight as the mast of the ship beneath his feet,

calloused hands clasped behind his back and legs apart to stay balanced upon the rolling grey sea.

The steady wind tugs weakly at the snarled mess of a red beard and plucks at the hair dull with brine.

His blue gaze remains fixed on the speck of land in the distance

with narrowed eyes and the small grin of a conqueror before a conquest.

I wobble uncertainly on a moving bus, my eyes darting frantically about for landmarks on the route. 

Don't Worry

Time for another poem! This isn't from the book, just something I came up with last night. It's still in the first draft stage, so there are a couple stanzas not finished, and I feel like there is a lot more I want to add.

Don’t worry about me.

Don’t try to see my future,

or tell me what will happen.

Don’t tell me I chose wrong.

And most certainly don’t give me that look.

The one you always try to hide,

but shows all your doubt.

Because I have it all under control.

I don’t know what will happen.

All I can do is hope

that my plans work in my favour.

And if I get lost

I will shift my direction

and keep going.

I can open a bookstore café

in a sleepy old town.

I will greet each customer by name

and spend more time talking

than it takes to drink a coffee.

I can start a magazine

for the average person.

No hidden meanings or convoluted messages.

No high standards or special degrees.

No philosophy or phycology.

Just stories on happy for enjoyment.

I can be a teacher

to pass on my knowledge of words.

You may see it as a failure, a last resort

but five succeeding students are better

than one successful me.

I can be an editor

to just read what I love

and help others to love what I read.

I can be a critic,

if I just steel my heart

and stop loving these words too much.

I can be so much more than you expect,

because I can read, and I can write.

So please, don’t worry that I chose wrong.

My path of life is not a path at all,

but a wide open prairie,

and the only obstacle

is the reach of my vision.

Let's Get This Started

I'm going to start working my way through the book that my friend gave me, titled "642 Things to Write About", starting from the very beginning. (If I don't keep an order, I'll never remember what ones I've done) Some will be poems, some will be prose. Don't expect a whole story, unless it's very short.

What Can Happen In A Second

An idea.

The blink of an eye or two

A frown turned into a smile,

or vice versa.

The flash of a lens

and the snap of a photo.

The choice between yes or no.

The inhaled breath after a long wait.

The thump of a heart,

an electrical shock.

A scream.

But it’s not the second that counts

but the before and the after.

An idea to take life or create it.

When the eyes open again,

or remain shut forever.

When the tear-stained face of a child lights up,

or the hopefully look of a parent is crushed.

When the photo is placed in an album

or in a record.

When the yes is a yes

and the no doesn’t matter.

When the wait is for a loved one

or simply one of desperation.

When the heart beats for the first time

or for the last.

When the shock saves a life

or takes it.

When the scream is of joy

Or cut off after a second.

Goodbye, Farmor

This is a very belated post for my grandma, who I called Farmor. (Swedish for father's mother) She died a little over a month ago now, and at the funeral I wrote a poem. I mentioned this earlier and how I was planning on posting it. Well, here it is! (finally)

She was a Queen,

more regal and elegant as any royalty.

Her heart was made of gold,

but she shared the treasure

to ensure everyone was as rich as her with love.

She was a superstar,

wearing her oversized sunglasses

as if to hide her identity,

but it was those sunglasses

that would always identify her.

She was a model

who was always the star of a photo,

no matter if that photo

was supposed to be of her or not.

She was the support

of the household, who helped

her children grow and flourish,

and in turn they took her hand

to return the support four times over.

She was a five star chef,

who made sure everyone was settled

and happy before she started her own meal.

Even the pickiest of eaters

could not complain about her food.

She was entertainment and audience combined,

always laughing, even if she didn’t understand

what she was laughing at.

It was contagious. Only the stone-hearted

could not find joy in her presence.

She was a critic,

the very best one would ever find.

Everyone and everything was beautiful,

and to her it was never a lie,

even if you wore nothing but a potato sack.

She was the wind

that blew the clouds away

to reveal the sun behind,

and when the rain was tears,

the sun was her smile.

She was Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween

and any holiday in between.

She was the slow unwrapper, who had

little care in what the present actually was,

for she knew the real gift was being with her family.

But most importantly, she was a mother,

who raised her four children to become

mothers and fathers themselves.

And she still is an inspiration,

to overcome obstacles as large as

oceans and countries, or as small as

a bed in a hospital.

Passport... Almost

Today I woke up really early (7:30) to go to the passport office to try and get it renewed. Apparently I needed my birth certificate, which I thought I had lost a few years ago. Ends up I've had it in my room the whole time. But now I need to go back on Friday.

And that's how I started my day.

Other than that, I have nothing of interest to report on. I don't have any new poems or short stories, since now I'm just working on essays and projects for my classes. Next Wednesday, or maybe even Monday, I should have a fairly long poem, which will also be my last piece of school related work for this semester.

Anyway, I'll leave you with a picture I had made a couple years ago for my photography class. I posted it on r/books on Reddit, but they didn't seem to like it all that much...

Headache

I have a new poem! Unfortunately, it's a complete mess, and I don't know how well it'll work here. But I'll try. It's a concrete poem, so that means that half the meaning of the poem, if not more, comes from the shape or the image of it. Since it requires manipulating words in ways that Word does not do, I had to do my poem on Paint. It's rather sad... I don't have any fancy programs for things like this. Anyway, here it is!

                                                                                               Shut up

I didn't add the last two words to the Paint picture, so on Word it looks fine, but I'm not sure how it'll turn out on a blog. Either way, the 'Shut Up' is part of the poem.

Ode to the Penny

((As many of you may know (especially those who work as cashiers), the penny is going out of circulation as of February first. They actually stopped making them in May 2012, but soon they will be no longer used. So, I wrote a poem.))

Do you know how long

you have in this world?

Can you count the

days until the end?

It’s almost here,

but you cannot feel a thing.

Do you recall May 2012?

It was the beginning

of your end.

But still I feel that you

will not go without a fight.

Hundreds of millions of your

copper-bodied kin

will roam the country

for centuries.

Like your ancestors

you will be replaced,

forgotten in time.

But for now we

Will remember.

We will continue to

pick you up off the street,

claim you as our own

and store you away for later.

And when we have a hundred

you will still be no more

than just one.

February first will be

your Doomsday.

You will wander from

hand to hand, searching

for a home forever.

And for forever you

will rust away as pig food.

Farewell, fond friend.

You served us well,

but the country is better

with less change.

Consumed

((For my poetry class, we have to write a poem in someone else's voice. My friend suggested Edgar Allan Poe, and I think it turned out very well.))

Upon the night two days before last

as I shambled to get water in my glass,

a sudden compulsion overtook my mind

and I swayed in an arc to return from where I came.

With my pen upon my desk I sat

and to the sound of the scratch my mind wandered.

Free of the bonds I looked down and beheld

my body shackled in the chair and that to absolution.

A shell, a shadow, a specter of my surreal self.

Following the followers to survive in monotony

break away to be consumed by the Muses

and through them our blood forms the words

in scarlet letters upon the parchment.

My hand is the tool shadowing the pattern

set out by Them for us all to chase after.

My eyes are blind to the corrupt within,

but I see from within that I cannot escape.

These manacles I forge with every word

and every thought that I think is my own.

I write my death and feel not a thing;

not anguish, nor acrimony or agitation.

I simply write until the blood in my fingers

runs like a red river.

((And as usual, I claim copyright.)) 

Misplaced Memories

((Today I will post a poem for my advanced poetry writing class. It's supposed to be addressed to someone, sort of like a letter, in poem form.))

Do you remember me?

Do you remember the car you loved or your favourite candy?

Can you recall the names of all your children, or who your husband was?

Do you know where you are or how to speak English?

Do you remember me?

I remember.

I am your youngest grandchild.

You used to drive an olive green Buick Regal

that swallowed you up in its massive body,

And every time we visited you

there would be a bowl of Swedish Berries waiting for my sister and me.

You have four children; Per-Henrik, Gunilla, Bjorn and Solvig,

and your husband died many years ago in Sweden.

You held my dad’s hand as you walked down the path to the funeral.

You’ve lived in the West Vancouver Care Centre for two years now,

I stand by your bed every time I visit, and you smile up at me without recognition.

You spoke nearly flawless English, though you said ‘polka nuts’ instead of ‘polka dots’.

I loved your thick Swedish accent, even if I could barely understand you.

Now you speak in ‘Swinglish’, of outrageous tales

and million dollar boats.

I am your youngest grandchild.

I was scared of your monster of a car and ate half the berries when I came over.

I am the daughter of your third child and granddaughter of your forgotten husband.

I try to visit you every two weeks, and I speak no more than five words of Swedish.

I wish you would remember me.

Me and Her

They call me Pale

                They call her porcelain.

They call me boney

                They call her skinny.

They call me nerdy

                They call her smart.

They call me boring

                They call her mature.

They call me sarcastic

                They call her funny.

They call me shy

                They call her cute.

And she is me and I am her

And they are friends

And they are family

And they are haters

And they are lovers

And they are me and her.

((Just a super quick poem I thought up while on the bus. For the record, the first part is roughly based on me, but exaggerated. I wanted to show that even if you're called things such as pale, boney, nerdy or anything like that, there's always a good side to it. And also that you can be the very one to be calling yourself these bad things, but you will also be the one calling yourself the good names too.

Finally, please don't take this poem, it's mine and I want to keep it mine.))

Canine Companion

Since I've started school again, this semester with three creative writing courses, I'm going to have a lot more writing-based posts, the first one of which is going to be today! Now I have to add that it's not finished, and it's far from being revised. It's something for my Advanced Poetry class, called a Prose Poem. Basically it's a very pretty paragraph. I also want to ask that no one gives me advice or suggestions on how to finish or revise this poem. I want to do the first draft all by myself, without any help. After I've had it workshopped in class, then go ahead, tell me everything that's on your mind. If you want, you can tell me if you loved or hated it, but that's all.

The best way to take a walk is with a strong-willed dog. She tugs me in the direction she wishes to go, and I freely follow, past the houses of old friend and new strangers. Up the shallow hill, along the lengthy road and across the broken sidewalk to the dank, dark forest, where the dog daringly proceeds without delay, and I delightedly tail after. Under the canopy of evergreen branches and dead winter trees, fat drops of rain worm their way through green needles and brown leaves to hit the target of my head. My dog pulls onward, stopping here and there to sniff a fern or a bush, and with a sudden sharp tug on the leash, we’re off again. I want to run, to watch the old dog playfully prance like a young puppy, to let her dance in a mud puddle as if it were a hot summer day. However, near the end she grows too tired, and trots slowly along by my side, acting like the obedient dog we never trained her to be. But although her flame has faded, it fans up again at the sight of a fellow dog. As she snaps and growls, I smile politely at the owner, say a hello and apologize for her jealous fury. They smile back in understanding and we part ways as slightly more than new strangers.

And of course, this is my work, so don't take it and claim it as your own. Actually, I would appreciate it if you didn't take it at all, even if you do give me credit.


Oh! I also want to say happy 1,000 views to my blog! Thanks to everyone who reads my tales and rants. It really encourages me to continue writing.

Wolfe's Pack

Today I finished with one of the projects that I was worrying about. It was for my Canada Before Confederation class, and we had to do something creative to commemorate a conflict in Pre-Confederation Canada. Most people did post boards or small dioramas. Of course, I decided to write a poem, and now that I've presented it, I'll share it here:

Wolfe’s Pack

Like mice we scuttled along the watery roadways of the black river,

With night as our cloak and ignorance our shield.

The French Hawks saw, but remained blind,

And in moments we became the predators.

Upon the banks we paced,

Like a hungry fox waiting for its food to rest.

We hungered for vengeance, for action, for the blood of the French.

Win and we gained power, glory and honor.

Lose and we get skinned like common animals.

Silent as the hunting wolf,

We scaled the cliffs after our noble leader.

A pack of angry dogs, we clambered over the edge

To face our death with reckless courage.

Fire in our hands, flames in our eyes,

Our blood boiling from the heat of our anger.

The guns boomed to the sound of our beating hearts,

Reminding us we are alive, we are fighting.

Britons do not hesitate, do not look back.

We are no animals to flee at the touch of Death’s cold hand.

And touched by Death we were.

Our noble Wolfe pack leader fought and fell.

His last battle with the Reaper lost.

Dozens of men joined him that day,

In their last journey to their final resting place.

This poem is written from the perspective of a British soldier while fighting on the Plains of Abraham.

And as per usual, I claim copyright over this poem.