I had to write a lot today for my creative writing final. Here is some of it.
York Beach
(for Patrick and Megan)
It was cold.
We dove in head-first
Like our feet
Couldn’t feel it.
The weight of the cool
Pressed into my skull
Like a brain-freeze (but
I can’t stick my thumb
To the roof of my
Mouth to stop it).
The warm air was good
Against my thawing head.
We mocked the waves
And dared them
To come closer.
They crashed into us
And we crashed right back.
They raced and roared
And we ran and shouted back.
We were ten and
Knew nothing of real waves,
Of real cold—the kind
That sticks to your heart.
We played outside
Pretending to save
Each other’s lives
(Before we knew that
We could really die).
It’s still cold.
I stuck a foot in
To test my tolerance
And felt unbearably old.
Obituary
I died the other day.
Not one of those poetic deaths
Where the narrator clearly wishes
For some sentiment to be achieved
While he remains very much alive,
Basking in the brilliance of his metaphor.
No, this was not that kind of “died”.
Instead, it was the ugly one—
The people screaming, clutched chest,
“Call an ambulance!”, waiting room,
“I have some bad news,” cue the tears type—
The one that makes a lot less sense.
What happened next I can’t quite say.
Not to say I don’t quite know,
But rather that it doesn’t quite work to tell.
However, I will offer up what little sense I can
(And forgive me if it’s a bit obvious,
But I promise that it’s worth the thought):
When I died, I did not end.
I began.
The End of Something
and what’s left:
just a cryptic hint
of what was;
what became of it all:
just a case-in-point
of what it all could have become—
like a sunburn
or the little drops falling
from low trees after the rain.
A Realization
It has come to my attention
that I think about failing
far more than I
consider changing.
(A statement which now resounds
with some profoundly
strong strain of
sad irony)
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Another story
believe it or not, this story is an encouragement. hope is never as far gone as we convince ourselves it is.
Hope
“Okay, now clip the harness in and hold the rope tight!”
There is a splash at his side. He attaches the harness and grips the dangling yellow rope with both hands and tugs twice like they told him. Surrounding him, the illuminated patch of turbulent waters cuts stark and unnatural into the moonless night. The helicopter propels a salty mist into the cold air.
He feels the pull of the rope and holds on tightly as his ascension begins. The sea allows his body to glide freely from its midst—a merciful captor. His drenched clothes begin to drain, and he watches each desperate, hopeless drop fall to its death.
“Hang in there! You’ll be home in no time!”
Liars. Home has drowned.
The rope begins to burn. His feet dangle a story above the surface, the helicopter still more than fifty feet up.
. . .
It did not happen “so fast.” It was agonizingly slow. An explosion in the engine compartment breached the hull and jammed the sliding door shut. He was on the stern; she was inside. All sound ceased but that of her muffled screams and the desperate pounding on the glass.
It wouldn’t break. Why wouldn’t it break?
He stayed for the next hour as the water seeped into the cabin. It surrounded her ankles, then her knees, her waist, her shoulders, her neck. Then the boat slowly tilted forward and disappeared into the dark water.
A current took him further and further away until he could no longer watch her last breaths bubble to the surface, and he knew it was hopeless. Her terrified green eyes blazed from behind the fogging glass in his mind.
Why wouldn’t it break?
. . .
The rope burns. His hands are too tired. The harness creaks and whines as if it wants to release him. What is there left to hold on for?
. . .
Her green eyes peek our from a huddled, shivering, blanketed mass.
“Is he okay?”
“Just ten more feet and he’s here.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. This day was full of miracles.
. . .
There is nothing left. All is lost, all is hopeless, all is gone. The searchlight stings his eyes. The rope cuts into his hands and the harness into his thighs as he dangles high above the water. I will never be home. His own tears join in the fate of the helpless droplets still falling by the hundreds from his clothes. He runs his fingers over the harness buckle that keeps him dangling, pulled toward a half-life. Tears and water roll off his body, falling—slow, soft, beautiful—into nonexistence.
. . .
“No!”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, eyes locked on the open door of the helicopter.
“I’m so sorry. He… his harness. It must have come undone. He fell.”
Hope
“Okay, now clip the harness in and hold the rope tight!”
There is a splash at his side. He attaches the harness and grips the dangling yellow rope with both hands and tugs twice like they told him. Surrounding him, the illuminated patch of turbulent waters cuts stark and unnatural into the moonless night. The helicopter propels a salty mist into the cold air.
He feels the pull of the rope and holds on tightly as his ascension begins. The sea allows his body to glide freely from its midst—a merciful captor. His drenched clothes begin to drain, and he watches each desperate, hopeless drop fall to its death.
“Hang in there! You’ll be home in no time!”
Liars. Home has drowned.
The rope begins to burn. His feet dangle a story above the surface, the helicopter still more than fifty feet up.
. . .
It did not happen “so fast.” It was agonizingly slow. An explosion in the engine compartment breached the hull and jammed the sliding door shut. He was on the stern; she was inside. All sound ceased but that of her muffled screams and the desperate pounding on the glass.
It wouldn’t break. Why wouldn’t it break?
He stayed for the next hour as the water seeped into the cabin. It surrounded her ankles, then her knees, her waist, her shoulders, her neck. Then the boat slowly tilted forward and disappeared into the dark water.
A current took him further and further away until he could no longer watch her last breaths bubble to the surface, and he knew it was hopeless. Her terrified green eyes blazed from behind the fogging glass in his mind.
Why wouldn’t it break?
. . .
The rope burns. His hands are too tired. The harness creaks and whines as if it wants to release him. What is there left to hold on for?
. . .
Her green eyes peek our from a huddled, shivering, blanketed mass.
“Is he okay?”
“Just ten more feet and he’s here.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. This day was full of miracles.
. . .
There is nothing left. All is lost, all is hopeless, all is gone. The searchlight stings his eyes. The rope cuts into his hands and the harness into his thighs as he dangles high above the water. I will never be home. His own tears join in the fate of the helpless droplets still falling by the hundreds from his clothes. He runs his fingers over the harness buckle that keeps him dangling, pulled toward a half-life. Tears and water roll off his body, falling—slow, soft, beautiful—into nonexistence.
. . .
“No!”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, eyes locked on the open door of the helicopter.
“I’m so sorry. He… his harness. It must have come undone. He fell.”
thinking, theorizing, philosiphizing, etc...
Self and Whole
I watched as invisible rain
Leapt from the grey sky
And each tiny, fragile globe
Exploded on a glass sea.
I saw each drop as it hit—
Water plunging boldly into water.
Hopefully, I traced their paths
To shore, but not one ripple
Reached my feet.
Instead I saw myself
Pulsing subtly,
Shaken by the motion:
The unanimous union
Of self and whole.
The Wounded Bird
We rest stiff in stuffy studies
And complain of minor aches
While symphonies saturate the halls
And billow like smoke from the doors
Of our burning houses.
Denial.
Reclusion.
Indifference.
Our mansions at the center,
The world spins in dizzy circles
Flung by a bullet in springtime,
And reeling from the blow,
It staggers to our doorsteps.
Dismissed.
Refused.
Ignored.
It dies at the threshold
With desperate pleas for notice
Unheard over the deafening sound
Of our endless search for cheer.
We drown the globe in comfort.
A White Thought
A white thought
Defies me to define,
Drifting in
And wandering out
In stubborn ambiguity.
It is all feelings
Yet none.
A sunken chest,
A lifted spirit;
Crippling fear,
Overwhelming joy.
A white thought
Defies me to define.
Poking,
Teasing,
Prodding,
Then floating off again.
An Epitaph
When my pen ran dry,
And crowded shopping malls and dim beer halls
Decayed back into forests they replaced;
When towering city skylines were erased
And everything I knew faltered and fell,
Still, I shut my eyes.
When my pen ran dry,
And every thought became a memory
Of loss and failure, vivid and haunting;
Enemies yielded to ceaseless taunting
And extinguished life with cold brevity,
Still, I shut my eyes.
When my pen ran dry,
And the time came when I should cease to be,
Burdened and weary of a world fleeting;
When I left this world, broken and bleeding
And suffering and sorrow I ceased to see,
Still, I shut my eyes.
I watched as invisible rain
Leapt from the grey sky
And each tiny, fragile globe
Exploded on a glass sea.
I saw each drop as it hit—
Water plunging boldly into water.
Hopefully, I traced their paths
To shore, but not one ripple
Reached my feet.
Instead I saw myself
Pulsing subtly,
Shaken by the motion:
The unanimous union
Of self and whole.
The Wounded Bird
We rest stiff in stuffy studies
And complain of minor aches
While symphonies saturate the halls
And billow like smoke from the doors
Of our burning houses.
Denial.
Reclusion.
Indifference.
Our mansions at the center,
The world spins in dizzy circles
Flung by a bullet in springtime,
And reeling from the blow,
It staggers to our doorsteps.
Dismissed.
Refused.
Ignored.
It dies at the threshold
With desperate pleas for notice
Unheard over the deafening sound
Of our endless search for cheer.
We drown the globe in comfort.
A White Thought
A white thought
Defies me to define,
Drifting in
And wandering out
In stubborn ambiguity.
It is all feelings
Yet none.
A sunken chest,
A lifted spirit;
Crippling fear,
Overwhelming joy.
A white thought
Defies me to define.
Poking,
Teasing,
Prodding,
Then floating off again.
An Epitaph
When my pen ran dry,
And crowded shopping malls and dim beer halls
Decayed back into forests they replaced;
When towering city skylines were erased
And everything I knew faltered and fell,
Still, I shut my eyes.
When my pen ran dry,
And every thought became a memory
Of loss and failure, vivid and haunting;
Enemies yielded to ceaseless taunting
And extinguished life with cold brevity,
Still, I shut my eyes.
When my pen ran dry,
And the time came when I should cease to be,
Burdened and weary of a world fleeting;
When I left this world, broken and bleeding
And suffering and sorrow I ceased to see,
Still, I shut my eyes.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Faith-Related Stuff
Not to say that all of my writing isn't influenced by my faith, but that these deal with it fairly explicitly.
A Brief Scene
“It was a good choice,”
she smiled as they left
the cramped and crowded
theater.
“I’ve seen better,”
he mumbled, unaffected in
a shameless move for pointless
control.
Never dead, never awake,
not intentionally evil nor trying
for truth, but only seeking
self.
The Fall
We lay in deep embrace
inching warm death up round our waists.
Hidden in the blackness of its shroud,
we steal away to some secluded
Garden corner,
ignoring saddened, searching cries.
To the condemner…
Dear Sir
—or Madam:
The LORD would request
that you return
His gavel, and
encloses the
following message:
“Judgment is mine.”
He also wishes to
inform you that
He would be
more than happy
to offer some
lovely grace
in exchange,
which you are welcome
(and encouraged)
to share.
It should suit you
far better than
the black robe and
stern look.
Warmest Regards,
Faith, Hope, and Love
P.S.
We humbly suggest
some apologies
might be in order.
Gideon
I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.
So I took
it—Your proof,
Your truth—
I took the
treasure won by
Your hands,
saying, “Thine be
Israel, but grant
me this:
some small shimmering
tokens of our
great victory.”
The fire raged;
I melted faith
into form—
placed it in
the land of
Your promise,
and all Israel
slithered like snakes
around golden
idols, losing Your
name in the
bright confusion.
You see, whether
wet or dry,
I couldn’t
catch You with
the water near
the fleece.
I’d prefer the
deaf ears of
dead statues
to trusting in
still, small voices.
Simply put,
I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.
Untitled
Like ghosts, the clouds (in shadow) flow
Undefined and unrestrained
Over the static green of the field.
Like Providence, the spectral wind blows
Unseen, though dimly palpable
Through the sprawled fingers of the trees.
Like our moment, a little boy plays in the grass,
Unalarmed or unaware
As past and future move within and without.
A Brief Scene
“It was a good choice,”
she smiled as they left
the cramped and crowded
theater.
“I’ve seen better,”
he mumbled, unaffected in
a shameless move for pointless
control.
Never dead, never awake,
not intentionally evil nor trying
for truth, but only seeking
self.
The Fall
We lay in deep embrace
inching warm death up round our waists.
Hidden in the blackness of its shroud,
we steal away to some secluded
Garden corner,
ignoring saddened, searching cries.
To the condemner…
Dear Sir
—or Madam:
The LORD would request
that you return
His gavel, and
encloses the
following message:
“Judgment is mine.”
He also wishes to
inform you that
He would be
more than happy
to offer some
lovely grace
in exchange,
which you are welcome
(and encouraged)
to share.
It should suit you
far better than
the black robe and
stern look.
Warmest Regards,
Faith, Hope, and Love
P.S.
We humbly suggest
some apologies
might be in order.
Gideon
I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.
So I took
it—Your proof,
Your truth—
I took the
treasure won by
Your hands,
saying, “Thine be
Israel, but grant
me this:
some small shimmering
tokens of our
great victory.”
The fire raged;
I melted faith
into form—
placed it in
the land of
Your promise,
and all Israel
slithered like snakes
around golden
idols, losing Your
name in the
bright confusion.
You see, whether
wet or dry,
I couldn’t
catch You with
the water near
the fleece.
I’d prefer the
deaf ears of
dead statues
to trusting in
still, small voices.
Simply put,
I’ve found I
need the things
that shine—
a little light
to blind the
nagging doubt.
Untitled
Like ghosts, the clouds (in shadow) flow
Undefined and unrestrained
Over the static green of the field.
Like Providence, the spectral wind blows
Unseen, though dimly palpable
Through the sprawled fingers of the trees.
Like our moment, a little boy plays in the grass,
Unalarmed or unaware
As past and future move within and without.
From the UK
Westminster Abbey
Standing over dead men
Breathing solemn air
Smiling
Bright light blinds
The subtle blues and reds
Cast through stained glass.
Your moment stolen
Static, empty.
Cameras pass through
Souls seeped
From ancient graves
Like arrows flung
To kill them once again.
I’ll have the Abbey keep
Its secrets sacred.
Grass
“Why doesn’t the grass grow longer up there?” She watched the mountain intently, as if expecting the pale green surface to sprout up into a thick forest at her command. “I mean it’s not like someone cuts it. Our grass gets longer than that back home, and we have to cut it once a week or so.”
I made something up. “It’s probably a different species. Some grass just doesn’t grow very high.”
“Oh.” She was clearly looking for something more profound.
“Plus, would you really want it that green up there? The contrast between the rocks and the grass is my favorite part. It’s like there’s this fine dusting of life, and if it wanted to, the mountain could just shake it all off,” I couldn’t tell if she was listening. Something in that view had gotten a hold of her. I kept trying. “But it doesn’t, you see. The rocks coexist with the grass. They compliment one another. It’s really beautiful if you think about it.”
I really was trying. “Beth?”
“Huh?” She cast a short look from the corner of her eye, but was still fixed on the window.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“’Well’ what?”
“Can you say something? Please. I just like to know I’m not talking to a brick wall.”
“I know you do. I don’t have anything to say.”
Her elbow rested on the edge of the table. I traced it down her forearm to her palm and we linked our fingers and held hands. It was quiet for a long time. I watched her as she looked out at the rough Scottish hillside. She was beautiful. Her hands were like ice.
“I don’t like rocks,” she finally said, “The small ones get in my shoes and I can’t seem to get them out. They ruin my day. And the big ones just get in the way. We could see the water without those hills.”
“Oh.”
“There. I said something.”
“Thanks.”
We were still holding hands. She was watching the mountain, waiting for the grass to grow. “But yeah,” I broke the silence, “it’s probably just different grass.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I let go of her hand. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Can’t you look at me when you say it? I mean, I know the view is beautiful, but I’d like to feel it when you say it.”
She looked. “I love you too.” It seemed like she meant it this time. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and felt it cold and rigid against my lips. Her hand broke away slowly but intentionally. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“What?”
“About the grass.”
“Oh?”
“It’s the wind. It’s the wind and the rocks. The wind won’t let it stand. It just presses all the grass up against the rocks, and strangles it to death.”
I thought about correcting her—the notion of the wind and the rocks conspiring to suffocate the grass was simply absurd—but she spoke again before I had the chance.
“I think I’ll move to Peru.”
Clearly there was something wrong with her thinking. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you seen the mountains there? They’re so lush—so green. I think I’ll move there.”
“Beth, we can’t move to Peru,” I had to talk some sense into her.
“I know we can’t.”
She started to cry. There was no sense to talk into her. Her cheek was still cold and now wet as I kissed her for the last time.
Standing over dead men
Breathing solemn air
Smiling
Bright light blinds
The subtle blues and reds
Cast through stained glass.
Your moment stolen
Static, empty.
Cameras pass through
Souls seeped
From ancient graves
Like arrows flung
To kill them once again.
I’ll have the Abbey keep
Its secrets sacred.
Grass
“Why doesn’t the grass grow longer up there?” She watched the mountain intently, as if expecting the pale green surface to sprout up into a thick forest at her command. “I mean it’s not like someone cuts it. Our grass gets longer than that back home, and we have to cut it once a week or so.”
I made something up. “It’s probably a different species. Some grass just doesn’t grow very high.”
“Oh.” She was clearly looking for something more profound.
“Plus, would you really want it that green up there? The contrast between the rocks and the grass is my favorite part. It’s like there’s this fine dusting of life, and if it wanted to, the mountain could just shake it all off,” I couldn’t tell if she was listening. Something in that view had gotten a hold of her. I kept trying. “But it doesn’t, you see. The rocks coexist with the grass. They compliment one another. It’s really beautiful if you think about it.”
I really was trying. “Beth?”
“Huh?” She cast a short look from the corner of her eye, but was still fixed on the window.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“’Well’ what?”
“Can you say something? Please. I just like to know I’m not talking to a brick wall.”
“I know you do. I don’t have anything to say.”
Her elbow rested on the edge of the table. I traced it down her forearm to her palm and we linked our fingers and held hands. It was quiet for a long time. I watched her as she looked out at the rough Scottish hillside. She was beautiful. Her hands were like ice.
“I don’t like rocks,” she finally said, “The small ones get in my shoes and I can’t seem to get them out. They ruin my day. And the big ones just get in the way. We could see the water without those hills.”
“Oh.”
“There. I said something.”
“Thanks.”
We were still holding hands. She was watching the mountain, waiting for the grass to grow. “But yeah,” I broke the silence, “it’s probably just different grass.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I let go of her hand. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Can’t you look at me when you say it? I mean, I know the view is beautiful, but I’d like to feel it when you say it.”
She looked. “I love you too.” It seemed like she meant it this time. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and felt it cold and rigid against my lips. Her hand broke away slowly but intentionally. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“What?”
“About the grass.”
“Oh?”
“It’s the wind. It’s the wind and the rocks. The wind won’t let it stand. It just presses all the grass up against the rocks, and strangles it to death.”
I thought about correcting her—the notion of the wind and the rocks conspiring to suffocate the grass was simply absurd—but she spoke again before I had the chance.
“I think I’ll move to Peru.”
Clearly there was something wrong with her thinking. “What are you talking about?”
“Have you seen the mountains there? They’re so lush—so green. I think I’ll move there.”
“Beth, we can’t move to Peru,” I had to talk some sense into her.
“I know we can’t.”
She started to cry. There was no sense to talk into her. Her cheek was still cold and now wet as I kissed her for the last time.
For Nick
A Family Visit
It’s all too clear.
The light has left again
And the grey begins
To creep back to the vacant
Corners of your eyes.
As you sit silent
We calculate with careful
Barely moving fingers
What number this will be,
Counting all the times
You’ve had to pace
Those dismal halls before;
My heart sinks at the thought:
And how many more?
Moving In
It’s that feeling of falling,
Heart in throat,
Stomach in chest,
And no more futile stalling.
Up the stairs to your new place,
With all you haven’t lost
And all that you will
In hand, its fate: to be erased.
Your laugh cuts straight through
Any lingering hope
And any doubt of what
We know to be in store for you.
The drive home. No words exchanged.
All that’s left is fear
And waiting for the call
When hospital beds must be arranged.
It’s all too clear.
The light has left again
And the grey begins
To creep back to the vacant
Corners of your eyes.
As you sit silent
We calculate with careful
Barely moving fingers
What number this will be,
Counting all the times
You’ve had to pace
Those dismal halls before;
My heart sinks at the thought:
And how many more?
Moving In
It’s that feeling of falling,
Heart in throat,
Stomach in chest,
And no more futile stalling.
Up the stairs to your new place,
With all you haven’t lost
And all that you will
In hand, its fate: to be erased.
Your laugh cuts straight through
Any lingering hope
And any doubt of what
We know to be in store for you.
The drive home. No words exchanged.
All that’s left is fear
And waiting for the call
When hospital beds must be arranged.
The Title
No hand of man
could plant by plan
the symmetry of
a random scattering of daisies.
-Helen Wolfe Allen
I admire my grandmother's poetry. If anyone, she is the writer who I try to emulate. It is nothing short of tragic that the only light her poems have seen since she died is in a small book, collected as a Christmas present from my aunt to our family. It is at the same time, however, an incredible blessing that I have that book. Her poems are one of my greatest sources of inspiration.
As such, anything I write here, and the blog itself, is ultimately dedicated to her.
With that, a poem.
A Pressed Petal
(for Nana)
We never really met,
you and I.
I must have been, to you,
a barely opened seed
And you, to me,
a wilting flower,
Your petals all falling,
waiting for the frost.
I (the now I, with roots
and leaves and fruit)
Would have liked to see you
(the then you,
In full bloom—a lilac
in your spring).
But since, by some irking
requisite genetics,
Our paths can’t cross
as such,
I must thank you deeply
for your foresight.
Your poems, pressed and dried
like fragile petals
Between the pages of
a well loved book,
Still carry your scent,
and it’s May again.
(If only your withered eyes could
see my reciprocal.)
could plant by plan
the symmetry of
a random scattering of daisies.
-Helen Wolfe Allen
I admire my grandmother's poetry. If anyone, she is the writer who I try to emulate. It is nothing short of tragic that the only light her poems have seen since she died is in a small book, collected as a Christmas present from my aunt to our family. It is at the same time, however, an incredible blessing that I have that book. Her poems are one of my greatest sources of inspiration.
As such, anything I write here, and the blog itself, is ultimately dedicated to her.
With that, a poem.
A Pressed Petal
(for Nana)
We never really met,
you and I.
I must have been, to you,
a barely opened seed
And you, to me,
a wilting flower,
Your petals all falling,
waiting for the frost.
I (the now I, with roots
and leaves and fruit)
Would have liked to see you
(the then you,
In full bloom—a lilac
in your spring).
But since, by some irking
requisite genetics,
Our paths can’t cross
as such,
I must thank you deeply
for your foresight.
Your poems, pressed and dried
like fragile petals
Between the pages of
a well loved book,
Still carry your scent,
and it’s May again.
(If only your withered eyes could
see my reciprocal.)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
First.
I'm not sure what will end up going up here.
Probably some sort of creative writing. Maybe random rants... but mostly I'd just like to share some things with some people. We'll see if I even remember this in two weeks.
Probably some sort of creative writing. Maybe random rants... but mostly I'd just like to share some things with some people. We'll see if I even remember this in two weeks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)