A Slight Foray into Narcissism
Some poetry of my own, which I should apologize for, but won't, just be warned
How come when I make a face like that I end up looking contorted, not cute?
Sketches
(these are character profiles I did when sitting in a mall taking notes on the people walking by, I tried to make them concrete)
An old man,
Dignified, stately,
Striding with carefully measured gait.
He leans heavily on the shopping cart,
Hands quivering slightly,
Supporting his pride.
Little girl
dashing
tripping along
unsteady
and exuberant
clinging to an ice cream cone
her face smeared with its contents
happiness
A harried mother
Her hair prematurely
Streaked in grey
Marches determinedly
Shoving a stroller
Ignoring the cries
Of the child within.
Isn't it darling?
Cinderella
(this is about my ashke, whom I hadn't yet expressed my affection for when I wrote this; I utilised a very Gothic style in writing this, and am a wee bit fond of it, though it doesn't make much sense)
Searching
Spiraling upward,
Around and around,
Like light through water,
Splintered down,
Falling into her eyes,
Drowning in depths,
What have I learned?
Pain, wrong,
But perfect,
Pleasure, dancing,
Whirling in circles,
But not with me,
Pumpkin carriages
And masquerade balls
Bewley's
(this was the result of sitting at a lovely restaurant for hours, and jotting down a little poem about it a while later)
Smoke drifts
Round in lazy spirals
From a pair of cigarettes
Held by a man and a woman
In easy, contemplative silence,
Communication wasteful
Amidst the frayed
Red velour seating,
The muted yellow light
Gently veiling
Peeling mahogany varnish,
Giving the brass rails
A delicate warmth,
Providing home for
Worn grey faces with
Watery blue eyes,
Old and faded like their lives
Am I just profoundly geeky, or does anyone else think first of wavelength when they see lambda?
Attempts at Haiku
Interlaced
Her fingers with mine
Around a chipped coffee cup
Summer night, two old women sit
side by side on swings
not speaking
The water ripples
Moving with the gentle breeze
mountain's reflection
(there isn't much to say about this, it essentially talks about melding polarities)
Sunlight
filters through
the forest canopy
illuminating
the veins of leaves
a tracery of darkness
within a sea of light
the beams falling
downward to the earth
forming an intricate tapestry
of shadow and brightness
woven together
intermingled
and yet distinct
one could not be
without the other
we are all composed
of patterns on a forest floor
Pride symbols are fun, especially when Magickal.
Memory Soliloquy
(this is another love poem, about my Domme, this time, and it was initially supposed to be beautiful and moving, now it's more parody; 'tis Elizabethan and in blank verse)
My love, how can I not but dream of thee?
So cruelly rent from me, thou art my soul.
For without thee my life is meaningless.
Deprived of thee I am bereft of hope.
Thou art too good for this poor earthly realm
With all its savagery, atrocity,
Bare wasteland of a lost humanity.
Yet thou amongst mere men dost still abide,
Perfection prais'd by flourescent glow.
What artifice of astral art did make
My wondrous love, amidst this desolation?
Art thou an angel, fallen from on high,
Or Goddess, come to view Her creation?
Each gaudy star that illumineth the sky
With envy for thy radiant beauty shines.
Thine eyne hold depths of true eternity,
Immeasurable wisdom in their wavering shades.
Thine ethereal face of purest light is wrought
Which deepest dark enshroudeth with thy hair.
Yet thou art gone so far from whence I lie,
And I am left with naught but memory.
Les Danseuses
(this is a poem which I wrote because I was hurt and angry and needed a way to express that in a language suited to my emotions... I turned it in on a whim, and my very traditional French teacher said that it was 'excellent', which was hardly the reaction I expected towards an overtly lesbian work with the word 'pervert' in it... this accursed program doesn't have accents, my apologies)
Le monde est beau,
La vie est juste,
Les gens dansent et
Aussi ils pensent,
Je prends la main d'une amour,
Et nous nous promenons,
Moi et mon coeur,
Je n'ai pas peur,
J'ai la liberte
Je touche la terre,
Et je la sens vivre,
Il n'y a personne qui
La blesse, qui la deteste,
Et je danse
Dans des grands cercles,
Moi et ma vie,
Mon extase, mon amie,
Nous n'avons pas peur,
Nous avons la liberte
Nous dansons,
Nous tournoyons,
Et je l'adore
Une femme, une fille, une personne
Qui n'est pas toute bonne,
Que j'adore, que j'aime,
Et je ne suis pas pervertie
Elle et moi, nous dansons,
Et finalement, nous somme libres.
(this is my attempt to emulate Ani DiFranco's harsh modernism, it isn't very well done, but it shows my latest stylistic endeavor and how I do stream-of-consciousness)
I can't stop thinking,
pondering, analyzing,
Wondering why it happens
always happens this way
Incessant introspective
ramblings, whilst watching
seeing clouds drifting
wafting through the sky
in tattered shreds
wafting like thought through my head
and I think of humanity
of the people who hurt
of the people who hate
I keep seeing those like me
in the wisps of white
drifting directionless, but with a passion
a desire that cannot be seen
that cannot speak its name
those who keep getting torn
by the winds to conform
whose hopes are the shreds
whose faith the wisps
I want to believe
I scream in my head
to the stars to the clouds
to the sun's pressing heat
to the people I love
to the people who hate
to the whole fucking world
which chokes on its apathy
and washes it down with bitterness
in silence, without looking up
but we don't go away
what of the lost souls?
The Serious Scholar
(this is done as an attempt at the style of T.S. Eliot, and is somewhat cute and whimsical, if not beautifully done)
Laughing beams of sunlight
Bespeckled with dancing motes of dust
Drift languorously through the shutter slats
Into the thirty-seventh floor flat
Of a wizened old man with pale blue eyes
A thick pair of spectacles,
An expression of affronted surprise,
Who swats away, imperiously,
At that blasted sunlight, so distractingly
Entering the window, impervious
To the delicacy of the pedigreed book,
To be translated from Latin,
Its secrets plumbed,
Squeezed like an orange,
'Til the last drop of meaning succumbed
To his fervent scrutiny,
Tearing the grandiose discoveries
Of myriad scholarly treasures,
Too advanced for the likes of thee,
Ripping them forth like the still-beating hearts
Of the Aztec sacrifices in the temples of old
To be placed in prestigious tomes,
The annals of triumph in academia,
Ah! To be published, to come, to see,
To conquer those pesky mysteries...
The scholar sprang up and banged closed the shutters
Then eased his rheumatic bones back into the chair
And fixed the volume once more with his haughty glare.
to indexish thing