I'd rather be a recluse...

A new poem--roughly made.

2008-10-22T07:45:00.001-07:00

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

2008-01-31T05:31:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T09:56:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-23T06:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

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--

2007-09-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

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.

The first poem I wrote my father loved

2007-09-11T04:51:00.001-07:00

I have shown my father my poetry over the years and he was always pretty blah about it. He encouraged me to the extent he could but since he isn't really into that kind of thing he never went further. That's fine, not everyone loves poetry, but I have sometimes wished that I could write a poem that he would really love. Well, yesterday I wrote a pompous and self important poem (in my opinion) about work. I showed it to my Dad on a whim and he loved it!

He told me that he felt the ideas I expressed were worthy of Mark Twain or Charles Dickens. I hate Mark Twain but Dad loves him or I take it as a huge compliment. So, anyway, here is my poem. Ignore the pompous wording.

I Want Not But That I Should Be Occupied:

Lay on thy whips O life!
I want not but that I should be occupied.
I languish and wither at play,
and glowing, burn at a task. Man is not so beautiful
as when some duty bends his brow,
nor woman so fair when her task demands.
Pleasures never ask of us the depths
that duty plumbs: we’re never our best selves
when at our ease. Pleasure is dross and duty fire
and under both we shine. Yet gold was never
pure while smiths and fires were at rest. Let us
be doing! Whether our task be as great as a King’s
or humble as the char maid’s sweep. Let us not be idle,
lest we wake to find no work to be done.

Another poem written in class

2007-09-10T14:38:00.000-07:00

He Wished Me Well

He wished me well;
happy life and spinning dreams
coffee cake and golden beams
poppy red and verdant green
sweet vanilla, velvet cream
smoky fires and starless nights
prancing ponies, thrilling frights
honest lies and lying truths
movie reels, candy booths
loving friends, a faithful mate
a wooden swing and unoiled gate
the perfect dress, snappy shoes
a game you win and a game you lose
restful nights and bad hair days
annoying traits, winning ways
a working car, remote control
contented mind and peaceful soul
and all these things I hope you'll find
you are your own and never mine

I wrote this in class because I'm a loser

2007-09-05T13:28:00.000-07:00

The lonely god

He does not ask for worship
I am compelled to sing in his silence;
Expending all for little, he never
Asks for my love, I give it
freely. And he will never love
me as he loves the idea—
the idea of unstoppable life.
I will follow for the crumbs,
picking up pieces of worlds,
peoples, fragments of his
spinning dreams. Turning
razor edges I will search
for myself among the rose
and ebony skin, the bride
and lover lost.
a thousand miles a minute,
through a million different worlds,
he brings me with him, an antidote
for what he lacks—for he
lacks
--the lonely god.

Madonna and I are shocked

2007-08-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote, "The Madonna" and since then I have been astounded by the response I have received about it. People love it.

Mom tells me it is the best poem I have written and she is sure she heard gasps when Peg read it at the last poetry reading. Peg then read it at her poetry class that Jim Harms is teaching (I am so jealous! I want to take that class!) Apparently they loved it too.

I am pleased beyond belief! but a little confused. When I wrote "The Madonna" I didn't think it was that great and I even wrote a revision of it. However, before I could do anything about putting out the revision I became to get feedback for the first one. Since everyone loved it the way it was I didn't dare bring out the new one. I went back and read the revision and realized the first was far superior to the second and nearly burned it.

I just feel a little stunned. Mom even asked me if I was sure I was the one who wrote? I'll take that as a complement because anything else would be....uncivilized.

Silk scarves and cigerette smoke

2007-08-16T06:12:00.000-07:00

I had a blast last night. Peg had my two sisters and I over to her apartement to dye silk scarves anyway we wanted. We arrived and found the cutest little apartement with books and celtic themed things thrown all over. It was the home of a creative mind.

One thing amazes me about artists and writers in general. Poeple believe they can take writers and artists in a lump and label us, but when you take a closer look you find that we are nothing alike at all. Poetry and Art, like religion pulls us together and drives us apart. But we still feel more connection with each other because there is unity under the banner. So much fun, really.

We stenciled our scarves and allowed them to dry and then added color. I went with light blue, dark blue and white; virgin colors. I decided to write a poem about it quickly and than revise later. Here is the unrevised version.

The Madonna

he painted me as the virgin
my hands beneath my breasts
above my belly abundant with salvation
my eyes were full of mercy and rimmed by blackest kohl,
my lips were rimmed with love and parted for breath,
my feet was beautiful white soaked in cool water;
he painted me in white and blue and crowned
me with my own hair, coral black and oiled smooth
he made me more human than goddess
and so made me myself
in the image of God.

Let me know what you think?

All your poetry are belong to us

2007-08-12T20:21:00.001-07:00

Redemption.

How's that for a poem subject. but what kind of redemption is it? Spiritual? Emotional? Physical? Depending on the genre the poem could literally be about anything.

in my case I have to either come up with a poem or find a poem that suits my needs well enough. I haven't been able to come up with anything for over two weeks. I can't find a poem and I can't write a poem. That sucks majorly.

And anything, I want to take Jim Harms poetry class like Peg is and I can't because i go to WVU-P and not WVU. There is no way I can do the other thing either. It just plain sucks to be sometimes. And so here I am mourning and whining to the mechanical ears of my computer. I need to crawl into bed and sleep because I have a big annoying day at the bookstore tomorrow.

I feel like a captive.

Today I will write sonnets without punctuation ...

2007-07-03T07:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I go to write poetry, of any kind, I find myself staring at a blank sheet of college ruled paper and wondering why I bother. After all the sweat and tears and dives into the thesaurus are done what do I have? A poem. A collection of words, images and sentiments in a format I chose.

But what else do I have?

My poems have never made me money, and as far as I know Hollywood is no planning a bio-pic on my life. So why do I write?

I was asked this question the other day when I was trying to get a pedicure with a friend. We had my friend’s nephew along and he was happily asking any question his aunt put into his little noggin. (Noggin, that’s a good word.) Well, as I usually do when I have a wait of indeterminate time, I pulled out a notebook and began working on a story.

“See, Emily writes all the time,” My friend pointed out to the nephew, “Ask her why.”

“Why do you write all the time?” he asks and giggles as if it’s a joke.

Lying down my pen I turn to him with a solemn face. Using the control over my face and voice that has done me good in many situations when I’m called on to lie, I said, “Because I have so many stories in my head that if I don’t write all the time than my head with explode.”

He believed me. I saw the wonder and horror dawn in his little four year old eyes. He was silent for a long breathless moment as his aunt cracked up. But then he shattered the illusion by leaning forward and saying, “Then stop writing! I wanna see your head explode!”

So much for innocent youth. However, I recognized the truth of the statement I made to him. I mean, if I stopped writing then my head would explode or I think I mean implode. I have words, images and sentiments that living in my mind and I want to give them a chance to speak. I don’t always agree with them but they demand my attention. To stop writing is to kill the voices and faces that revolve in my mind. Since I’ve lived to the age of 22 with them, I think it would be a capital mistake to silence them.

Because, if I did, then I would have only myself to listen to and that just boring.

Me, Me, Me

2007-06-26T07:57:00.001-07:00

So here's me starting a blog so I can go and read my friend's blog. We are all such nerds!

I love it!