July 27, 2005
Sonnets
Due to my serious writers block, I am posting some old poetry, in fact, two sonnets. One of which is in honor of my trip to Fresno, they are both from my beginning poetry writing class in college, many, many years ago.
What's a sonnet? You say. Well, it is a 14 line poem, often written in iambic pentameter, and follows this rhyming scheme:
abab cdcd efef gg
In italics, I will enter my professor's comments.
There's nothing like a Fresno summer eve,
The many falling stars grace skies so clear,
At times I feel like these I never want to leave,
I'll sleep through days without the heat to fear.
Home of one of seven wonders of earth,
with water falling down and mountains high,
most people forget all that it is worth,
and never see snow fall on winters nigh'.
Interesting stuff in here
In August heat those nights seem never near
your breath forms clouds though mouths never touch air,
When I cannot go in and have a beer,
I stand outside and smoke without a care,
This city where I live will never change.
Never to leave this mediocre range.
Nice
Side note: I have since realized that Yosemite is not one of the 7 wonders of the earth...
The next sonnet does not rhyme, but is in iambic pentameter except for the two "turning points" in the poem, which break the meter intentionally to grab your attention.
I'm walking down the street to get some milk
I'm headed to the local grocery store
I'm crossing rivers o'er a weathered bridge
A voice comes from a man I cannot see
He grinds his teeth and speaks out loud
"The drugstore cowboy is my name" he says
I do not say a thing and walk away
I find myself in front of my latched gate.
When finally I reach my door at home
I put away the groceries that I bought
I don't have shit to do and laugh out loud
I picture The Man coming from shadows
He's riding on a deathly pale white horse
And from its head did sprout a funny horn.
Very strange poem. What does it mean?
So, in case you haven't figured out what it means...
It means abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
It means a friend and I stayed up really freakin' late trying to finish my damn poetry assignment. That's what it means. It also means that I had a very valid reason for despising my poetry professor; did she really think it had meaning?
Posted by meloknee at 11:23 AM | Comments (1)
June 22, 2005
I used to write poetry
I used to write a lot of poetry (I wrote my first poems at age 11). Like, I'd sit down and pick up a pen and paper and words would just flow out of my body. I'm not saying all the words were good or made sense, but they were there, somewhere, in my mind. Now, when I look at the blank page, that's all I see, a blank page. I have nothing to say; no thoughts of my own, no feelings, nothing to express.
The last few poems I wrote were all about how I couldn't write anymore. Here is the very last one:
ever since i gave myself away
my stream of words
which would never end
has trickled away to nearly nothing
and it's sad to me
i have nothing to say
how could it be
that i have nothing to say
I think that was written some time in 2003, but I didn't date it so I'm not really sure. I know there was a point in time that I convinced myself that there was a logical reason that I wasn't writing anymore. It was because I was too happy. I knew it wasn't true, even at the time. I knew the reason I stopped writing was because I didn't want to put on paper what was going on in my head. I didn't want to face my own reality. So, how do I get back there? How do I start facing reality again? There has to be a way to start believing in yourself again and a way to realize that your thoughts and feelings are nothing to be ashamed of and you certainly shouldn't hide them from yourself.
My Room
I'd never open the door
even when someone knocked.
I'd never let them in
even if they brought gifts.
The day I decided to look outside
you were only walking by,
for some reason I invited you in.
We sat by the fire and had tea.
It was so enjoyable
I didn't want you to leave.
You stayed for quite some time
until someone called your name.
You ran for the door and gave no explanation.
As you left I locked the door
and shut the blinds
and cried myself to sleep.
Every once in a while you'd stop by
you wouldn't have much to say
and always had somewhere to go.
I'd sit and stare straight through you
trying to see inside and understand why.
After you leave
I sometimes want to nail the door shut
and put boards over my windows
because it hurts so much to see you
and even more when you leave
but I like your visits too much.
If I did that
I'd probably go numb.
I'd rather still have hope
and feel the pain
than never be touched by you again.
So, I put down my hammer
and cry myself to sleep.
November 5, 1996
Posted by meloknee at 12:31 AM | Comments (6)