Log in

23 February 2006 @ 09:40 pm
How do you cry for help

Living in a shadow,
I can see the light.
Hiding, I despair.
I am drowning in darkness
And burned by light.
Where to hide
How to feel
When all brings pain?

Pounding beneath my thoughts,
Weariness cannot be ignored.
Hope and Happiness
Dance with illusive portent.
Awkwardly, I fumble.
The pillow caves,
All thought retreats
And oblivion is found.

It's not something as happy as I would like to post but... The pillow is my portal.
21 February 2006 @ 11:43 pm
Under the cut is "Howl" by Slam poet Beau Sia. it's a tribute to Allen Ginsberg (or Allen for pretentious English majors like myself who also call Shakespeare "Willy Shakes" and that's a long story I'll relate another day) after his death. it's lovely. and I coloured it because I do that because I enjoy the poem.
My generation has no starving hysterical nakedsCollapse )

and yes, My icon is "Billy" Burroughs and Kerouac fighting eachother on Burrough's couch with a dagger and a broom stick. >.
21 February 2006 @ 01:24 pm
Before anything else, here's a hearty welcome to two new members: cloudwatcher and llewllynn. I think they'll provide some fresh perspective to our little community!

And another piece from my creative writing class.


Sometimes we dance in the kitchen.
Cita stands at the stove
Or at the counter
Peering at a cookbook
Blonde hair falling loose to her shoulders.
I put in a mix CD
One I made with her in mind
And skip around until I find a song
That we can sing to.
I start first
And she follows
Singing along at the chorus
And any other lines she can remember.
Now and again her timing is off
But her voice is pleasant
And she can always hold the tune.
The rhythm is good
So she begins shifting her weight
Then left
With a little kick
And a little pointing
And her dance is nothing you’d see
In a club
Or on MTV
Or done by anyone of my generation
But neither is it one of those,
Those disco-jitterbug-polka dances
That mark you as inarguably old.
It’s just Cita,
Which makes it unique and energetic
And surprisingly groovy.
This time I follow her lead,
Shaking and wiggling
Across flowery cream linoleum
Until we can stand side by side
And dance in tandem.
We laugh,
Feeling silly,
But we don’t stop dancing
And we’re still in sync.
Current Mood: blahblah
Current Music: American Justice
20 February 2006 @ 12:21 am
“I’m going to ask you out someday,” he said to me. We were walking down a wide hall in our high school, headed towards our first post-lunch class.

The remark caught me quite off guard. “Okay,” I said. And that was that.

His name is technically Daniel. He goes by D. James Floyd when he’s feeling playfully pretentious, and by Danny all other times. Daniel is a name reserved for another, more lactose-intolerant friend.

Danny is a frenetic little creature fueled by coffee, music, and Hieronymous Bosch. When he’s home from college, there’s a 95% chance that he’s at Java Monkey, and an 85% chance that he wants to go to Krispy Kreme later tonight. Danny and I are two-thirds of a Swedish indie-rock band called The Shoes. Our motto is, “Everyone needs shoes, except for hobbits, and they don’t exist!” Danny has a deep and inexplicable love for jellyfish. He has been known to lick EZ-Cheez off of other boys. He tried to solder a theremin back into working condition, but mostly soldered his fingers. Danny is actually Leif Erickson. He’s missing two of his front teeth. He used to be emaciated, but has graduated to merely slim. He’s recently cut off the curly brown ponytail that was his signature hairstyle in high school, and has now formed a symbiotic relationship with a blonde forelock named Renaldo. Danny and I are Wonder Twins, with the superpower to form a tableau. Danny doesn’t have a car; he has a coche. Once he shaved his entire body. He is aware that Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island. Someday Danny intends to photograph Peru, release an album, and marry Bjork.

When I started dating another boy, Danny casually said, “Well, let’s get this out of the way. Anna, will you go out with me?”

“No,” I replied.

Danny just smiled.
Current Mood: restlessrestless
Current Music: The Devil's Advocate
07 February 2006 @ 09:24 am
I figure on introducing myself to this community with my favorite poem. This is what I read when I'm really out of it:

David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
Current Mood: anxiousanxious
01 February 2006 @ 07:34 pm
Nice layout!!

Here's my "found" poem that has a special place in my heart(we were given different ads from magazines and paint chips and asked to somehow shape them all into a poem)

Ice, Ice Daiquiri

The way we live now we're
promised the moon and the stars,
so never quit you passionate
snowflake. There are so many
shooting stars in your lifetime,
so dunk as much ice in
the daiquiri as you can. An
unexpected leap; it's what
life should be.


One of my favorite poets from the "Poet's Companion", Lucille Clifton, wrote this (it's tacked up on my wall) and YAY for NO CAPITALIZATION!


homage to my hips

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they do not fit into little
petty places, these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
Current Mood: sleepyjust woke up
Current Music: FF VIII Soundtrack
01 February 2006 @ 04:08 pm
So, yeah, I changed the community layout. I didn't like the way the old layout was set up for comments and such. If you guys don't like the new style, though, I can change it again!

Otherwise, I'ma take a page out of vitamin_emmy's book. Here's a poem, not by me, but that I like a lot:

Where You Go When She Sleeps

What is it when a woman sleeps, her head bright
In your lap, in your hands, he breath easy now as though it had never been
Anything else, and you know she is dreaming, her eyelids
Jerk, but she is not troubled, it is a dream
That does not include you, but you are not troubled either,
It is too good to hold her while she sleeps, her hair falling
Richly on your hands, shining like metal, a color
That when you think of it you cannot name, as though it has just
Come into existence, dragging you into the world in the wake
Of its creation, out of whatever vacuum you were in before,
And you are like the boy you heard of once who fell
Into a silo full of oats, the silo emptying from below, oats
At the top swirling in a gold whirlpool, a bright eddy of grain, the boy,
You imagine, leaning over the edge to see it, the noon sun breaking
Into the center of the circle he watches, hot on his back, burning
And he forgets his father's warning, stands on the edge, looks down,
The grain spinning, dizzy, and when he falls his arms go out, too thin
For wings, and he hears his father's cry somewhere, but is gone
Already, down in a gold sea, spun deep in the heart of the silo,
And when they find him, his mouth, his throat, his lungs
Full of the gold that took him, he lies still, not seeing the world
Through his body but through the deep rush of the grain
Where he has gone and can never come back, though they drag him
Out, his father's tears bright on both their faces, the farmhands
Standing by blank and amazed -- you touch that unnamable
Color in her hair and you are gone into what is not fear or joy
But a whirling of sunlight and water and air full of shining dust
That takes you, a dream that is not of you but will let you
Into itself if you love enough, and will not, will never let you go.

--T.R. Hummer
Current Mood: busybusy
Current Music: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club -- The Line
01 February 2006 @ 12:17 pm
So after twenty minutes of frantic help searches, I have finally learned how to post in a community. One more thing to cross off my "Things to Find Out Before I Die" list.

Here's "Forest Home":

I lived where the hill dipped
into forest, where the creek
flowed on through.
Where every waking moment of daylight
was spent behind the walls of leaves, and the water
ran through my fingers and bubbled
over the rocks.
Where the way to enter from the north was to race
straight through, and the way to enter from the east
was to slide down,
down, down.

I lived where the light warmed
our heads, and the forest creaking taught me
how to hum merrily to my own tune.
Where the trees were walls,
the moss was carpet, and the branches
were the frames of doors.
Where we were all a family, our dolls were alive,
and the deer were our pets.
Where raccoons were chased out the door,
and skunks were the only real demons.
Where at the north door we'd run
right through to heed my mother's call,
and at the east door the only way to leave home was to
climb up, up, up.
Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: Beauty and the Beast's "Gaston"
31 January 2006 @ 10:09 pm
Ok kids, so after some complaints about lack of posting (I'll keep the whiner's name ANNA-nonymous) I've decided to post this poem. It's old, it's romantic, and it's sugary sweet. Kinda like me, minus the old part. I keep it on my closet door for a little encouragement in the morning.

With a Painted Ribbon.
Little leaves and flow'rets too,

Scatter we with gentle hand,
Kind young spring-gods to the view,

Sporting on an airy band.

Zephyr, bear it on the wing,

Twine it round my loved one's dress;
To her glass then let her spring,

Full of eager joyousness.

Roses round her let her see,

She herself a youthful rose.
Grant, dear life, one look to me!

'Twill repay me all my woes,

What this bosom feels, feel thou.

Freely offer me thy hand;
Let the band that joins us now

Be no fragile rosy band! --Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It's better in its original German, but then again so is everything!! I hope you cherish this one, I know I do. Ta-Da!!
30 January 2006 @ 03:53 pm
I've decided to post this here, because I'll never be able to let someone read it if we're face-to-face. (Hooray, internet.) A poem I struggled to write for an erotic poetry assignment. Comments welcome.

Lover I Don't Have To Love

It starts with pumping
The rhythmic rutting of the bass
Echoed by my heartbeat
Pulsing in time
A trembling voice
Breathless and hungry
Moans through the headphones
Swells with the violins
Their stroked strings wailing
For something tenuous and eager
Something darkly libertine
A story unfolds
Of shadowed alleys
Rain-slicked streets
The damp breath of an urban night
Eyeliner and leather pants
The drums’ hard staccato beat
Fades to quiet
Squeezing my lungs in anticipation
He whimpers into the silence
A desperate plea
Tasting pain in his words
Its flavor bitter
Current Mood: calmcalm
Current Music: Caribou -- Yeti