A new poem--roughly made.

I am hot-blooded.

born a little, flat girl,
I wasn’t a danger until thirteen;
developing curves in all the right places.

On clamped the bands,
over the breasts,
over the hips,
cover the face
throw all in shadow.

I must not be a woman.
I must be not a woman.


But I know
The metal warms and pools
golden at my feet.

I am hot-blooded.
And I say Yes.
Yes.
Yes.


Let me know what you think.

Being A Recluse

Well, I haven’t written in a while. I suppose I have been too busy being sick and living from day to day to care about up dating my blog. But since I am now the road to recovery I think it’s about time to do something new.

I don’t really have any great poetry to add just this thing(Below) I flung together in my spare time. I exactly find that I have less and less of this priced commodity. I made a resolution to get straight A’s this semester and so I have been brutally cutting down my free time and reigning in my talkative nature so I can hide in the library and study. It’s a strange sort of existence because I am at school and I see my friends but I hardily ever have time to stop and talk to them. Unless, of course, they are in my class.

But I can’t say that I am unhappy at all. I feel I have control of everything school wise and so I feel good about everything. Well, almost everything. Creatively I feel stale. I haven’t written a decent poem since the Madonna poem and I almost feel afraid to. It’s almost as if I’ve reached a point where I have to change my poetry because I’ve reached a turning point. If I don’t change my poetry I don’t move forward; every poem I have tried to write has not come out the way I want it. I feel that the sentiments I express have been expressed before and my words are flat and dull beside the rest.

During my romantics class I’ve felt this oppression keenly because the romantics seemed to feel everything so sharply and wholeheartedly; perhaps I have become so set on doing well that I have put blinders on my poetic eyes. I have my goal and I’m going to reach it, but at the expanse of what? That I cannot write? That I cannot create anything new because I am bombarded with homework and a job?

I was in the middle of a poetry writing frenzy. Once when a friend of mine once said that she wanted to write poetry, but she said, “I have no clay to work with.”
At the time I thought, “That’s a great line for a poem.” But now it is the sad and upsetting truth for me as well.

Abstract
“This camel isn’t going through the eye of a needle,” she said arranging
her swishy broomstick skirt around her bony broomstick legs, “I’m
writing abstract poetry these days—didn’t you know?”
I didn’t but pretended I did.
I didn’t tell this woman that I loathed her—the kind
of person who writes for the affect of it all
and not because she needs too. She doesn’t have the genuine
bone in her body. I know it because once she brought a poem
to a reading and said, (flinging her stringy hair over her shoulder,)
“This isn’t what I want but let’s see what you guys think.”
What she meant was, “Will you re-write this poem for me?”
She didn’t care anymore about her writing than the over dyed locks
she nearly wiped in our faces.
I watched in surprise as everyone in the group disemboweled her poem,
taking pieces of it unto themselves and returning it; a mess of images and feelings
that didn’t match. I watched but didn’t help.
So I turned to the woman and said, “Yeah, poetry is like that,” I answered, “Abstract.”

Excellant well--You are a fishmonger

Ahh--nothing like Shakespeare to find the sore wound and poke it with a knife. I love how 'mad' Hamlet manges to goad everyone in the prefect exact way to reveal their bad side.

Since we have been reading Hamlet in my lit class, I have had cause to cover the scenes more than I usually would when reading Shakespeare on my own. I have watched several different versions of the film and thus far find the Kenneth Branugh version to be my favorite. The look and feel is right to me when I read the play and see it enacted.

But drama aside--which one might never be able to do with Hamlet--I wanted to bring it up because I feel I have found the single most pathetic and pedantic human being I have ever met.

I was told this person was --shall we say singular?-- in their opinions and mode of address. Very well, I can deal with singular. What I was not expecting to find was someone in whom there is so little of self that they can only throw back words they hear like a parrot does; without any real understanding of the meaning.

I believe that you cannot have an understanding or sympathy with other people in the human race unless you have an understanding of who you are as a person. What you value and held did; where you will and will not go defines you. While there may exist areas in our understanding that as still gray, we have a good understanding of who and what we are. Once we have achieved this we can go out and find friends and companions and learn about other people. But this person was only miming the acts of this understanding.

How strange, horrifying and weird to discover someone who is so flamboyantly empty. Not seeming to be aware of their own vacant state, they loudly pronounced it with boasts of their talents and abundance of conceited self importance. Unfortunately this person's self importance only extents to the realm of those who are so self-abased they're over awed by someone louder than themselves. In any case, the person was so proud of their vapid state that I lost patience with them.

The saddest part of this person's situation is the fact that they are aware of it and still persist in the lifeless path they're in. To be unknowingly dumb is a sad and pitiable case, but to know it and yet do nothing--this deserves nothing save scorn.

The Raven Fiasco

I tell you what we had eleven, count ‘em! eleven people there for the Raven Project. We were rocking! Okay—so there were eleven counting the guy who did the lighting---and his wife.

Man people in this area don’t appreciate good culture! Our reading was good but I could tell the lack of audience hurt everyone’s performance. While Matt was reading, some rude people left; rudely. And I felt as if I was stumbling through my reading like an untutored child. I feel as if I somehow let everyone down. But the music was good and Blair’s poster was rockin’. I wish more people could have come just to see that.

Sigh. I think we might go back to regular meetings now.

Adventures in Modesty

Last night we had a special women’s’ meeting at church. The theme was modesty, not just in attitude but in dress and action. It was great. I should say right now that while I may poke fun at a few of the things that came out, unintentionally funny, I agree in the majority with what was said. That having been stated let me talk about some of the funnier things we discussed.

Stockings: We would more often refer to them as pantyhose, but for some reason we call them stockings at church; maybe they think this sounds more Christian and less like pantyhose? I mean, with the name pantyhose, you admittedly use the word …I’m almost embarrassed to type it…panty.

Anyway, some of the issues discussed about pan—I mean, stockings, were whether or not they were too sexy in black. I kid you not! We sat and talked about whether or not black pantyhose were too sexy to wear. I felt this was silly, but didn’t say so in the meeting. However, I have a few points about this I must make.

1.) We wear such long dresses in our church and fellowship that no one ever sees our legs but us and our family. In fact, we are so modest about it we hardily even remember that our legs are what carry us from point A to point B. Goodness forbid we should ever expose more than the ankle and even then!
2.) What is more seductive---a bare ankle or flesh colored stocking or an opaque black stocking? Maybe I’m all wet behind the ears and there is some huge attraction about black stockings, I could be wrong, but I think they’re pretty innocent.
3.) Black is one of the only colors that looks good with—well, black clothing; most of the time when we wear dark clothing we wear dark, navy blue or black socks or hose. It would be more attention attracting if we wore oddly white hose with dark clothing. If we’re in dark colors from head to toe and suddenly there is flash of white! Where do you think that poor young man’s eyes will go? To the distracting white encircling the female’s Ankle OF Temptation!

Seriously though, I understand the concern but I fear that we are backing ourselves into a corner if we question and re-question ourselves into a box. Christian modesty is a liberty and not a restriction. I love all the good women of our church but I couldn’t help have a little fun with it; especially when the talk turned to whether or not we should shave our legs. This idea was posed by “Oh that sister,” the one who always comes out with the extra dose of holy just for you.
Anyway, this was shot down pretty fast. The idea that it was more holy for us to go around with hairy legs was not one that was supported. Our pastor’s wife, God bless her, was trying to be even and said, “Well, if you don’t feel a peace about it than you may find that you don’t shave your legs. After all, our husbands are the only one’s who see them anyway.”

At this point, I lost it in the back pew. I was crying with laughter at the thought of a wife going to her husband, legs all hairy, saying, “I saved my hairy legs just for you!”

The New Birth

How beautiful poetry is!

I think I might be forgiven for this comment because I feel as if I have rediscovered poetry over the past few weeks. And I have rediscovered it a painful way.

Not only am I plowing my way through the most difficult Literature class I have ever taken, but I was also laid up with Mono. Now these two facts may seem unconnected to you so let me elaborate (I love that word).

When I signed up for Types of Lit 1, I had no thought beyond enjoying another lit class with Mrs. Phillips. I knew she would throw a few curveballs my way and I would come away from it with a new understanding of language and writing. However, in my prideful state of being a poet and with a snug feeling of having “arrived’ on some level I immediately fell on my face in shame. Our first assignment drained me dry on a poem I hated. The study questions made me look long and hard at the wording and structure. The message of strong but I found it a bit foggy because I had only given it a cursory glance. My pride in my ability to interpret poetry flew out the window as each new homework assignment knocked me down another notch. But with it I think I gained a feeling of rawness and ignorance that was healthy.

The second part of this revival of feeling toward poetry was the fact that I was laid up for about a week. Because Mono drains you of strength and you have to sleep for hours upon hours of time, I had nothing much to do for days. During that time I listened to a lot of books on tape “Gaudy Night” by Dorothy L. Sayers. This wonderful author begins every chapter of this mystery novel with a selection of poetry. This way I have been exposed to some of the greatest masters early. But anyway, the point is—I was reacquainted with some wonderful poetry I’d forgotten. And because Mrs. Sayers is such an accomplished writer, I fell in love with words once more. Simon Schama (The Historian) also aided me in this rediscovery by pointing out the beauty of art.

Now Art (as in paintings, oils, canvas and the like) shares so many similarities with writing and poetry, that when he spoke of the power of art, I couldn’t help but immediate make the connection to writing. While my body was healing, my poetry system (this is an actual bodily system---I swear!) was reset and rejuvenated.

Now I feel a little (okay, a lot) silly posting this but I am so amazed by my own reawakening that I had to get it out somehow. I cannot be the only one who has felt this way, but as with those newly in love and first time parents, I feel as if I am the only one in the world who understands this feeling.



BTW what context to you use passed and past? I might have used them incorrectly; I find I often do.

With a handshake…
Emily


I feel conpelled to post this twice.

My first favorite poem--

Was written by the American missionary Betty Stam. I read a book on her and her husband Johns' lives. I found some of her poetry conveyed many of the same feelings I have about my faith in God. I suppose the one that stuck with me all these years was the poem she entitled, "my testimony."

To me it said what I feel to be true in my Christan walk. When people say that it is too hard to be a Christan because____ fill in the blank, I always think of this poem.

My Testimony --Betty Stam

And shall I fear
That there is anything that men hold dear
Thou wouldst deprive me of,
And nothing give in place?
That is not so –
For I can see Thy face
And hear Thee now:
"My child, I died for thee.
And if the gift of love and life
You took from Me,
Shall I one precious thing withhold –
One beautiful and bright,
One pure and precious thing withhold?
My child, it cannot be."


You see? I miss nothing.