Sunday, November 20, 2016

Egomaniac

If I am left to my own devices for too long
The world whirls out of focus,
I lose my balance

My mind
my mind chatters away,
Digging a hole to hide in

No reason why,
Only that I am paranoid,
and a narcissist,
and I'm not entirely sure I am lovable,
deserve to be loved
at the same time that I believe
Everyone should love me. 

Feck

Damn everything.

I'm listening to Leonard Cohen, I read the New Yorker article about his death this morning.

I drank jasmine tea, understeeped while eating oatmeal and reading "Walk Two Moons".

This thesis won't write itself, but there are other things calling, other things neglected in the neglecting of it.

Leonard's muse. My muse, I don't really have a muse, but I have a twinkle star that won't come to my fingers, eludes my veins.

Deeply feeling, do you suppose? Or just a twisted column, kinked towards the bottom?

Damn everything with a fork and spoon, my life will probably sputter out, ghost promises and cobweb hopes.

The Cripple of Inishmaan, brutal and sweet and cruel, feeds some of this, perhaps. Bitter.


Thursday, November 17, 2016

All of the words that 

Want to come out of me 

Have already been said before 


Redundancies and cliches 

Slithering from my typing fingers 

A hollow voice repeating, chirruping anxiously. 

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

It's just that 
I want to love-
want to be loved.
But I become a hurricane if I see 
A drizzle.
Instead of a fairytale mermaid, 
Languidly brushing her hair on the rocks,
I am a siren, and my song is sublime and terrible. 
Galadriel when tempted by the ring, 
Perhaps a thing of ugliness and repulsion-
When all I want is to be by your side, 
And have you at mine. 

But really, I am none of those things 
I am a girl, ordinary, awkward.
At a point in time where my life 
Has intersected yours 
And I hear a song from your heart that I like, 
I am drawn to the light in your eyes. 

Maybe this is nothing, or maybe it is everything. 

All I ask is:
Can we walk together a little while? 

Monday, November 7, 2016

Why is my heart a 

Black hole? My mind a windy 

field of barley. 


I am not so sad 

As the waterfall world, but 

I want to wail. 

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Love Song to Inertia

The main focus of  “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” is the tension of inertia. Throughout the poem, Prufrock poises upon the edge of taking action or formulating an opinion, but time and time again, he backs down and drifts away on his underwhelming train of thought. This inaction is supported by TS Eliot’s use of repetition, imagery, and a nontraditional rhyming pattern. 
            Repetition in the poem helps to tie the stream of consciousness style of writing together, threading the entire thing together and uniting it with repeating questions and echoing lines.  The protagonist of the poem constantly asks, “Do I dare?” (676) about some unnamed action, and never really states whether he dares or not. Prufrock also asks variations of “How should I presume?” (676), somewhat echoing the thought of “Do I dare?” (676). In addition to these almost direct line repetitions, several lines are referenced or shuffled and rewritten at the ends of stanzas. For example, “If one, settling a pillow by her head,/Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all./That is not it, at all.’” (677) and “If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,/And leaning toward the window, should say:/ ‘That is not it at all,/ That is not what I meant, at all.’” This restructuring of previous lines in the poem is a particularly clever way to retain continuity in an otherwise fractured stream of consciousness piece. 
            The poem’s use of imagery reinforces the theme of stillness and inaction. The first stanza introduces the inaction with the lines “When the evening is spread out against the sky/Like a patient etherized upon a table;” (675) This line, though strange and dissonant if you think about it too hard, immediately conveys a feeling of lethargy and inactivity. The reader is thus prepared for a long, dreamlike collection of images and phrases that slowly build and then contract throughout the poem like the deep, passive breathing of a tranquilized patient. This sleepy image is reinforced throughout the poem, with lines like “And seeing it was a soft October night,/[the fog] curled once about the house and fell asleep” (675), and  “If one, settling a pillow beside her head,” (677). The poem’s theme of inaction is conveyed with sleepy and dreamlike imagery.
           Finally, the use of rhyme in the poem imitates the feeling of thought, bouncing up and down then trailing off. Throughout the poem, the pattern of rhyme bounces from line to line, then falls dead before being picked up again.  There is no constant abab pattern of rhyme; more often than not the pattern is aabbcaa, or aabacdefe. The rhyming flits about at its own discretion, rhyming some lines, then not others, and then rhyming two lines in a row. Both rhyming and non-rhyming lines carry the poem forward and create pauses after stanzas. An erratic thought process, or a state of dreaming are brought to mind by the pattern of rhyming, further conveying a feeling of inaction. 

            The poem “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” seems to mainly focus on a feeling of inertia, while the protagonist leads up to and down from the question of “Do I dare?”. Prufrock never comes to a decision, merely allowing his thoughts to trail off. He avoids taking action, choosing to stay still at the brink of acting. All of the elements of the poem including its use of imagery, repetition, and rhyme, help to convey the tension and release of inaction.

Abcarian, Richard, Marvin Klotz, and Samuel Cohen. Literature: The Human Experience. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2013. Print. 675-777

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Climb the Tree, Come Down Only for Green Mangoes

The eyes of my heart were broken
on the continent's brow.
Flash of yellow light, stars
and the world was outlined in red
and yellow, bright blue and salmon walls.
Pounded down by a waterfall,
strong enough to stay standing.
Wore me down and built me up,
little sandcastle human,
shaped by the branches that reminded
me of my own softness.
Surrounded by new colors, I forgot
what my own shell looked like.
Sycophant, the outside reflected the inside
reflecting self of surroundings.
A continuous, silver song
White on white
on blue on verdant on saffron
Goldenrod azul.
Butterfly, blue. 

A Realization

I was somehow lucky enough to visit Colombia for ten days this Spring.
While I was there, I was completely floored by the absolute beauty of the countryside and the cities of MedellĆ­n and Santa Fe de Antioquia. I am but a small desert girl, and being surrounded by all of that greenery was absolutely breathtaking. The flowers were everywhere, blooming from bushes and trees, flashes of orchids in the mountains and gardens in the cities. The color quenched and awakened a thirst in my eyes.
I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to stand being back home, in the mud and grayness of Winter giving way to Spring.
Surprisingly, a film had been washed from my eyes in Colombia, and I looked at my landscape with clear vision. The beauty here, so different from Colombia, pierced my heart just the same, and I discovered just how much I love this landscape. The wild trees in my valley, rocky mountain juniper and cedar, may be shorter, stockier, and less lush than those in Colombia, but they are still so beautiful. The blue-grey, scaly fields of sage, low to the ground feel like home.
Don't get me wrong, though, there are desert landscapes in Colombia too, around drought and just normally dry areas near the mountains of Antioquia. I saw cacti there taller than what grows close and nearly invisible to the ground in the hills of my valley.
The spring flowered here, sweeter smelling than Colombia, absolutely white on campus as the trees donned gowns of popcorn balls all along the sidewalk. The black locusts in my backyard were blooming until just yesterday, when the tiny, orchid-like flowers began to fade and flutter to the ground, spent.
I wasn't able to truly appreciate the beauty of my home until I traveled to Colombia, and experienced a land incredibly beautiful, in many many ways. I cannot say that one is more beautiful than the other, but my experience of both has opened my eyes, and I love them dearly. 

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Occupying space

Despite the assumption that Rosa parks suddenly decided to keep her seat on the bus and stand up to the tyranny of racism, the actual fact of the matter is that her decision was years in coming, and she had trained in activism for several years. For twelve years she helped to lead a chapter of the NAACP, and she had recently gone to a civil rights workshop.
This very much relates to something I've been thinking about lately. I very much admire people who I see as spontaneous, and public. Those videos of people messing around in airports? I think they look like fun, and I admire the courage and audacity of the people who perform and record them in public.
However, the other day, I realized that such things are not as out of the blue as they may seem. The people who create those videos of random acts of publicly strange behavior spend a lot of time in those places, they are comfortable in them and they understand how they work.
Rosa Parks spent a lot of time in the abstract space of activism and social change, so she felt when the time was right to keep her seat, she felt comfortable in her decision to own the space she was in.

In realizing all of this and linking it up, I realize that in order to inherit or develop the qualities of those I admire, I must first become comfortable in that space of activism, public connection, or private, instantaneous connection.