another bloody poem (stop writing you... writer!)
here's another poem I just wrote, trying out something new. I'm not sure how I feel about this style of poetry, so everyone should read it and tell me what they think of it - if it's good, bad, and why. That would be super awesome ^_^
::
tea
Dear, you... you are
this mug that waits on the table
to be picked up, cleaned, put away.
You see, dear, it is easier to set it down
when I’m done and let it collect dust
for a while; the only thing left in it
is the dry, shriveled bag of ground leaves.
The water’s evaporated, a ring hangs there,
marking what it used to be at its fullest;
what it used to be, boiling hot, searing
my lips and burning the tip of my tongue.
Dear, questions float...
unanswered, unspoken, and burning.
They rattle my skull but you insist
I seal them in and revel in what used to be,
without understanding what it is now.
This mug was born of heat, hardened
in flame and ash, though it is cold to my
touch now; it is hard, unforgiving,
and waiting. Why is it that it will not
get swept up in one of my fervors,
get washed through, removing the dry
remains of a hot drink that I had enjoyed
on a cold night - the snow was frosty harsh
and wrapped its tendrils into my room;
the liquid warmed my bones
and loosened my heart - why will it not
get wrapped up in tissue or newspaper
and stored somewhere safe, a box under my bed
where it is out of my mind but in easy reach?
I cannot seem to bear to move it from its
place of prominence, standing tilted
and filled with air and memory.
It is no good there, I know, but...
but I can’t seem to find the strength, the will,
the desire to pick it up, clean it, put it away.
Dear, it rests on the table waiting, and I am
waiting for it to boil again, water rising;
the sweet and bitter and fiery liquid would flow
and I could lift it up.
It would dance through my lips, scorching
the tip of my tongue, and I could sit
wordless and close my eyes, feeling the steam
tickle my nose. Even on this hot summer night
I would find myself enjoying the heat
in my bones in my heart again.
::
And let's see... I've done some painting tonight, but I won't finish it today like I was hoping. I used the wrong red in the face, so I gotta let that dry and redo it. Right now it's too purpley, but luckily I didn't get too far into that today. I'll probably work on it this weekend, I think. I could start the dog, but I think I'll wait on that as well.
It's kinda nice knowing I'll have some sort of scheduled life again. As much as I feel I don't like schedules - which I sometimes do - I know I run better with them. Plus there might be some new people to meet at school. That'd be cool. I'm also looking forward to starting creative writing, though I'm bummed I don't have an art class this semester. Oh well! Maybe I can get a composistion independent study set-up with Dr. Eugene. That'd be way moby. I mean, after all, he did get a doctorate from Juliard in piano pedagogy and composistion. He knows his stuff. Where as I'm a neophyte at best. I want this to change.
::
tea
Dear, you... you are
this mug that waits on the table
to be picked up, cleaned, put away.
You see, dear, it is easier to set it down
when I’m done and let it collect dust
for a while; the only thing left in it
is the dry, shriveled bag of ground leaves.
The water’s evaporated, a ring hangs there,
marking what it used to be at its fullest;
what it used to be, boiling hot, searing
my lips and burning the tip of my tongue.
Dear, questions float...
unanswered, unspoken, and burning.
They rattle my skull but you insist
I seal them in and revel in what used to be,
without understanding what it is now.
This mug was born of heat, hardened
in flame and ash, though it is cold to my
touch now; it is hard, unforgiving,
and waiting. Why is it that it will not
get swept up in one of my fervors,
get washed through, removing the dry
remains of a hot drink that I had enjoyed
on a cold night - the snow was frosty harsh
and wrapped its tendrils into my room;
the liquid warmed my bones
and loosened my heart - why will it not
get wrapped up in tissue or newspaper
and stored somewhere safe, a box under my bed
where it is out of my mind but in easy reach?
I cannot seem to bear to move it from its
place of prominence, standing tilted
and filled with air and memory.
It is no good there, I know, but...
but I can’t seem to find the strength, the will,
the desire to pick it up, clean it, put it away.
Dear, it rests on the table waiting, and I am
waiting for it to boil again, water rising;
the sweet and bitter and fiery liquid would flow
and I could lift it up.
It would dance through my lips, scorching
the tip of my tongue, and I could sit
wordless and close my eyes, feeling the steam
tickle my nose. Even on this hot summer night
I would find myself enjoying the heat
in my bones in my heart again.
::
And let's see... I've done some painting tonight, but I won't finish it today like I was hoping. I used the wrong red in the face, so I gotta let that dry and redo it. Right now it's too purpley, but luckily I didn't get too far into that today. I'll probably work on it this weekend, I think. I could start the dog, but I think I'll wait on that as well.
It's kinda nice knowing I'll have some sort of scheduled life again. As much as I feel I don't like schedules - which I sometimes do - I know I run better with them. Plus there might be some new people to meet at school. That'd be cool. I'm also looking forward to starting creative writing, though I'm bummed I don't have an art class this semester. Oh well! Maybe I can get a composistion independent study set-up with Dr. Eugene. That'd be way moby. I mean, after all, he did get a doctorate from Juliard in piano pedagogy and composistion. He knows his stuff. Where as I'm a neophyte at best. I want this to change.