(no subject)

Somteims, a poem is
best seen without sight, so that
now as Iwrite this I colse my eyes
and open others, so that
I don't have to see the page, the words, and
I can just feel it under my fingers,
like something more tangible, more necessary, more
alive. Something
that moves beneath my feet, something that quivers
like a living sidewalk
and takes me down roads unexpected. But
I wouldn't want to go anywhere old, to go
somewhere I have gone before -- there's
no learning in that, no experience, no
change, and that's what I crave from this life, that's
what most of the time I live for...

The words, the words, they spin away into
the space where lost words go, the ones
I cannot say, not here, not now, not because
I'm afriad at all, not because they are wrong or right, but
just because here they aren't meant to be, and
maybe later
mabye when I know better
they'll pop up and scream out, Use me, Use me! and
then I'll have to oblige. Then, when the words fall to the page
like ink-soaked meteors, when
everything flows and goes and happens as it should,
then and only then will I be satisfied.

I suppose that not all poets work like this,
spinning tales off the tips of their tongues,
throwing words out at the wall
and waiting for the right ones to stick;
producing, producing, producing (the first draft
of anything is shit, you gotta keep at it, you gotta
get past it) until out of a thousand words you find
the right three to say
what you really meant.

Like an archaeologis, I dig out the meaning,
dissecting the pieces
that I find, going over
every last indentation in the skeleton
of the piece,
stripped of flesh,
waiting for someone to come along
and reliably begin
the reconstruction...

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

(This isn't me.)

The novel I haven't written
is really wonderful, you see -- there are
so many levels to it, such depth,
and I just can't get over
all that there is to it -- you must
understand, when I say I haven't
written it, I mean
that I haven't been able to write it, yet, because
really, it deserves more time than I have
to give it; it deserves my life, it demands
the utmost devotion. But I can guarantee
that once it's out there, man, it'll
blow the market away, I'll have people
begging me for autographs, movie deals,
man, it'll be sweet. You know I can do it, too -- I just
hope that no one'll get jealous, you know
how that can be, you're so great and then
those people you knew, they just can't
handle knowing
something that wonderful, so you get problems with
keeping those close friends, you know? I mean,
I don't want that to happen, but
it's bound to, right? I mean,
you know,
I'm just that good.

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

Brevity is not
all there is to writing
or to life,
but some things deserve
imagery
and others deserve
silence.

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

Produce a pound of shit and you're sure
to find at least an ounce of good,
something that's right, a line that's pure.

Sometimes they hide themselves away
and the search goes on and drains your strength --
you waste the best part of your day.

Don't let this be misunderstood --
there are things to be said for length --

But if you are to spill your blood
upon the page in a manic fit,
don't make others sift through your mud.
Please, I beg: CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT!

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

We've started upon a poetry unit for the writing class, so I just had to "spill some blood" upon the page and see what happened. Well, I have. Now I think I can go and write some real poetry.

(no subject)

My poems for the assignment. The first one is about my field trip, specifically the store called Avalon Visions, and the second one is inspired by something Matt likes to say which Tobias Wolff echoed today when he talked to us.

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

Unknown

I walk upon streets
which have been walked before,
but something about them sings newly to me.
Two intertwined rings
guard an overlooked door
here on this street by the edge of the sea.

Mystery beckons
my feet through the portal
and I watch with awe as a metal bowl sings
for deft hands alone
in a place that is filled
with crystals and sigils and dragonfly wings.

Some may walk by
and deem evil on sight
a shop which vends magic and isn’t afraid
to believe the unknown
has a place of its own.
Tarot cards, chakra charms, boldly displayed

scare away those
who don’t know what to think
of anything other than what they’ve been taught.
But what I find here
is peace, and respect—
acceptance of everyone’s schools of thought.

Unlike the preacher
who stands at the corner
and says that only his credo is true,
the people inside
are content to believe
that what works for me might not be right for you.

All things must pass,
and finally my feet
take me out to the street, away from the door
of the shop where I’d stood
for a tolerant forever,
feeling belonging as I hadn’t before.

It mattered not
that I didn’t believe
in the power of tarot, or chakra, or myrrh.
As I watched the lady
explain without preaching,
I knew that my world could take lessons from her.

!@#$%^&*&^%$#@! --- !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!

Revision

Produce a pound of shit and you’re sure
to find at least an ounce of good:
something that’s right, a line that’s pure,

It’s somewhere there, I promise you.
But it’s not there in every word;
out of one thousand, if five ring true,

the others aren’t worth your time.
There are things to be said for length,
and compliments to pay to rhyme…

But if you write in a manic fit,
then please, I beg:
CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT!