You and Me

On the first day of the world

You stapled me to the floorboards

Too busy watching the stars

To see me bleeding at your feet,

Too far away for me to touch your peach skin

But close enough that I could smell your dandelion scent.

I am still here, as are you,

Though an eternity has passed,

Long enough for your hair

To tumble out the window

And weave among the constellations,

Long enough for your blown breath

To spin the worlds upon their axis

And give life to dirt,

Long enough for my blood to turn to rubies

That catch enough starlight for you to turn

And see Me.

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Discarded Light

So, I recently wrote the poem Ink Dreams for an assignment in my poetry class (Yup, I’m taking a poetry class this semester. You are hereby warned of the incoming poetry), and I’ve gotten a great reception from you all. The assignment was to write a poem with this prompt: “_____ drips from______ fingers while they sleep.” In addition to Ink Dreams, I wrote one other poem and I have decided to send it out to you for feedback. It is a little less refined than Ink Dreams, but that is mainly because I am not sure what to do next. Enjoy!

 

Sunlight drips from your fingers while you sleep

Past the hangnails, the torn fingertips,

The clinging ingrained dirt

Pooling on the floorboards,

Rippling over the discards of your life,

That have attained so fine a layer of dust

That it floats when you open the window to elicit a breeze

In your stagnant body.

You lay in the middle of your circle of sunlight

But cling to the darkness under your pillow,

Basking in the shadows

And fearing the light.

Ink Dreams

Ink drips from my fingers while I sleep

Dropping onto a lake of words

That flows down a river

Of Consonants and Vowels

To pool onto my notepad.

Words bloom into bloody flowers

That grow in a man’s abandoned ribcage

And are trampled underfoot

By wolves that feast upon children’s nightmares

And cuddle with the victims of their prey.

In the morning it dries

And I am left

With a blank page.

Advice 2

So, I had to give up on NanoWrimo. School decided that this semester wasn’t quite hard enough, so it procured three research papers and a creative writing portfolio for me to put together and then lumped on top of the pile of misfortune two final cumulative exams on the same day.

Great.

So, I have a partly finished novel that I am forced to put aside until the semester stops dogging my heels. In the mean time, I am also taking a larger hiatus from here. Don’t worry, it is only three weeks. I will be back before you know it. I do, however, want to offer this to you until then.

So, my creative writing professor here at college is Dr. Robert Vivian, a man who walks around the world in perpetual wonder. He is amazing and offers some of the best advice when it comes to writing that I have ever received. This is my third semester in a row with him and I regret nothing except that I have taken all of his creative writing classes and can no longer continue (though, I am currently trying to devise a way to change that… we shall see). His curiosity about the world can never be fulfilled and he is continually astonished by the beauty he is surrounded by.

Seriously. You may think I am exaggerating, but I am not in the slightest. He refuses to hold his creative writing in a normal classroom because he feels his mind is too confined and moves them permanently to a corner in the library where we are surrounded by books and that unique smell they give off or the basement of the chapel where occasionally piano music drifts through the floorboards as we work. He offers assignments where he simply gives us a list of characteristics and asks us to write a story where they are all included, has us create a fictional town and then insists we propagate characters to fit inside, takes us outside to sit in the sunlight on the lawn and write about a ray of light on some object, or sends us on a scavenger hunt for the last half of the class period to find the oldest book in the library and then write about it (by the way… I highly suggest you do these prompts. They are quite engaging.).

So, I have decided to share a bit of his wisdom with you. He is a firm believer that writing comes from a place of other, a dream space that sends us inspiration to the point where we are simply a conduit of words and phrases to place upon the page… sound familiar? Yeah… kind of like my theory about my Muse. That probably explains why I like him so much. The following link is a paper he wrote about the writing process and I do hope you will take the time to read it. He wrote it several years ago, but it is still relevant to what he teaches and the writing process in general. He explains his theory in more detail within and I think it will help those of you who are actually managing to finish NanoWrimo or simply write and are looking for some new inspiration/writing advice.

http://www.sosyalarastirmalar.com/cilt1/sayi3/sayi3_pdf/vivian_robert.pdf

Godspeed!

Getting to the Meat of Me

It’s a ball of quills

quivering in constant motion

that I hold tightly in my hands,

trying to contain it,

and the more I squeeze

the deeper each quill digs,

parting my flesh to get to the meat of me

and its’ poison seeps,

slowly at first and then

quicker, faster, rapidly

growing closer, nearer,

following the vines of my veins

until it reaches my heart.

The sound beating grows erratic,

spasmodic,

losing natural rhythm until my cells

are replaced with apprehensions

and each desperate beat of my heart

ticks a clock’s time,

and I squeeze tighter in my pain,

enhancing the quill’s power

in the act of suppressing.

I would really like an opinion on this. I wrote it in the middle of pre-exam stress, but I feel like it can relate to more than that. I’m also having trouble with the title, so any input on that would also be greatly appreciated. What I have right now is spur of the moment… I’m not really sure what title really fits.

Reborn

I am sitting on a porch and listening to the Rain,

straining for Thunder and wishing for Lightning,

and thinking of times past,

before responsibility,

before I had an inkling of what it means to be an adult,

though I still am not so certain what that entails,

before I left my childhood home for a new one,

before I sheltered myself inside of my mind

and imagined.

 

When I was young and all the world was new,

when I had no notion as to who Mother Nature was

or why adults always complained about her,

and instead understood the rules of hide-and-go-seek,

tag, and the floor is lava,

Rain and Thunder and Lightning helped me to realize

all that I did not know.

My family, often unpredictable, sometimes volatile, and usually so loving as to smother,

found solace and kinship, understanding and peace, in the fury of nature.

With a father who works construction

there is little time at home for bonding

and the only moments that offered any peace, any pause in our lives, was Rain,

when the ground grew muddy and no work could be done.

My mother would stop baking, cleaning, and fussing,

my brother and I would cease fighting and playing,

and join my father outside

to sit on the porch and listen and watch

and, occasionally, talk of unimportant matters that were quickly forgotten.

 

Now, as I sit on the porch railing of a house I have never been to before,

in the center of a college campus busy with activities,

breaking from a life rife with strife,

I can reminisce for but a moment

before the students leave their studies to venture abroad.

Watching them race through the rain,

I realize that the droplets cause a childish reaction in everyone who passes

as they laugh and scream, jump and run,

as if all the years have passed away

and, once again, they are children splashing in puddles.

One girl takes off her shirt and runs to her house in her bra

and I feel resentment, though I do not realize the cause at first.

 

I wish I could do that.

Strip and run, laughing and screaming, through the rain,

letting it course along my skin,

caressing the secret places that I keep hidden

and washing away the dirt that I don’t even know is there.

I wish that I were comfortable enough with myself

that I could ignore the prying eyes

and let Nature touch me directly.

 

Then the peace is broken as a friend joins me

and ushers me back to my room,

all reminiscent thoughts banished

in the wake of homework and deadlines and applications.

I take off my sandals and cover my phone,

preparing with marked efficiency for an inescapable walk

through the rain with no cover,

where I will surely be soaked to the skin.

 

Yet, as I separate from her and walk alone,

I feel a giddy glee bubble up

and I start deliberately treading in the puddles,

kicking the water until it fans in front of me

and then flipping my foot into the droplets that still hang in the air.

I turn my face up to the sky

and hope my hair will hold some of the essence, the smell, of the rain,

the perfume of peace and hope.

 

And as I enter my room

I strip off my wet clothes and stand in my underwear,

looking at myself in the mirror

under the harsh fluorescent lights,

water dripping from my disheveled hair,

skin lightly glistening when I move,

and no longer see any flaws,

but a girl who has become a woman

without losing that which made her a child

and has been cleansed by the rain

despite the best efforts of her avoidance and fear.

 

I do not know this woman,

this stranger born of the rain

who stares at me with a mysterious smile

and confident eyes.

But I will.

With time we shall meet in the middle,

Me, shy, uncertain, doubting, and

Her, self-assured, confident, outgoing,

and together will step into the rain

and erase all precepts of being separate,

of Her and I,

and instead become Me.