Oct. 21st, 2011

  • 7:02 PM
femmealunettes: (Gabriel is sweet.)
Okay, if you have five minutes, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read this and tell me what you think of it. I'm submitting it for a poetry contest on campus and the theme was "food". I have until midnight to submit it.

Sweet Tooth

I can't help it, I want candy.
Strawberry laces, Smarties, Andes
mints, Sour Patch Kids, gummi bears,
all kinds of chocolate. I don't care
about the sugar high or cavities.
I'll take my insulin and brush my teeth. You see,
I've got this craving that I just can't seem to kick,
and my mother never told me I'd get sick
from indulging my sweet tooth. Give me Skittles,
Raisinettes, Junior Mints, Warheads, a little
bit of fudge-- don't get me started on cakes and pies!
A bakery's like Heaven. Would I lie
about how much I love an ice cream cone?
No, you can't have any! Leave me alone!

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femmealunettes: (busy writing : Russian Holmes)
Okay, I wrote a sonnet and I think it's pretty good. I've put it under a lot of revision since I wrote it, but it could probably benefit from a little more constructive criticism. So would anyone with a poetic bent mind looking it over and just telling me what the weakest points are and whether I could be wording things better, or what you like about it? You don't have to go super in depth, just think about it for a minute and give me your honest opinion, please.


Repairman

Take this poor broken heart and tape it back together,
use glue if you've got it, staples if you're feeling cruel,
put in careful stitches with your deft fingers,
and once it's back in one piece, give it back to me.
Your toolbox and your kindness will ensure my gratitude,
because no one else who's had this heart has shown it any care,
but you're not like the others. You're a specialist,
and even if you deny it, you're the kindest of them all.
Don't give me your heart in return; it shouldn't be mine.
Keep it safe yourself, although I'd try to take care of it.
Even the things I treasure end up in pieces these days,
and my stitchwork's nowhere near as neat as yours.
So keep your heart, and give me mine back as it stands,
and when I see these scars, I'll remember your kind hands.


Also, if you really enjoy looking over poetry, I've been posting everything I turn into class and a few things I wrote a long time ago at [livejournal.com profile] metaphorliteral, and I always appreciate getting people's advice on my work. The most recent thing is a poem it took me seven years to finish, and the beginning is a lot stronger than the ending, so any kind of feedback would be really helpful. And there are a few sestinas and villanelles there if you like formal poetry.

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May. 26th, 2011

  • 1:41 PM
femmealunettes: (busy writing : Russian Holmes)
Okay, I really don't know how to edit poetry, so I'm just going to put this up and ask what I can do to make it better. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

It turns out that I am made of nylon.
I always thought I was made of tin.
I found out when your jagged words caught and snared on
when I thought they'd bounce off and I'd be safe in.
I guess it makes sense now that I think of it
although I'd much rather the reverse had been true:
it'd be nice for my words to make a direct hit
when I have sharp words to be said to you.
But nylon's got a lot of things in its favor
like tights and rope and colorful kites
and seatbelts that act as a life saver
and parachutes that bring people down from incredible heights.
So maybe the fact that I'm not made of metal
shouldn't be cause for any alarm.
Metal, after all, rusts and gets brittle
but you can sew nylon up after any kind of harm.
So what if now I've got runs up and down me
from all the cruel things you saw fit to say?
I've got needle and thread, and scars will look gutsy
and I'll live to save lives another day.

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femmealunettes: (an excellent listener. : John)
There was a 38-line subsection of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" called "Prufrock's Pervigilium" which was all but five lines excised from the poem. And it makes Prufrock sound nuts, in a way that makes me love him even more desperately than I did when I was 14 and came across Love Song in my mother's old college lit textbook. How did I not know there was more to my favorite poem?

- I have seen the darkness creep along the wall
I have heard my Madness chatter before day
I have seen the world roll up into a ball
Then suddenly dissolve and fall away.


Prufrock was insomniac too, clearly, walking the streets at night in a way I used to back when I lived on more interesting streets. Not as interesting as his streets, at any rate.

Once again, fandom makes me smarter. What would I do without it? (Be a much sadder person, that much is certain.)


I slept in fits and starts all night long, just long enough to dream about going to college being more like summer camp with books, not deeply or well enough to feel rested at all now. I need to do things today. What things, I'm uncertain, but definitely something.

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femmealunettes: (*tub time*)
Today my mother and I traded favorite poems. I gave her The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock to read, and she made me read Love Is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay and When We Two Parted by Lord Byron. My mother is secretly fourteen years old and emo... but my favorite poem hasn't changed since I was fourteen, so maybe I shouldn't talk.

Nothing will ever change my mind about loving that poem, though. It will probably be my favorite poem for my whole life. Sappho comes in second place. It's probably weird that my favorite poem makes me identify with a balding middle-aged man... and probably weird that I've been so willing to... well, this:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.


I am nowhere near drunk enough to be this introspective. I think it's time for me to take my whiskey and go take a bath, since we watched two episodes of Quantum Leap instead of one and if I do yoga now I'll be awake all night.

It's been raining all day, but tomorrow it's supposed to get up to almost 60 degrees and clear up a little bit. Good. I've been getting kind of uncomfortably weird on rainy days. It'll be good to be around people and have to act like a real human being all the time instead of just when I'm out in public.

Oh, crap, I should probably finish copying all these DVDs my brother wanted before I go to Plattsburgh, shouldn't I? I guess that's what I'll be doing tomorrow: copying Pushing Daisies and Ocean's Eleven/Twelve/Thirteen.

Tags:

viral culture

  • Mar. 12th, 2010 at 12:50 AM
femmealunettes: (assistant asteroid : Astrid)
When you see this meme, post a poem on your LJ.

I cheated and used lots of pieces of poems, lacking one entire one to post.


Sappho, translated by Anne Carson

Fragment 5

O Kypris and Nereids, undamaged I pray you
grant my brother to arrive here.
And all that in his heart he wants to be,
make it be.

And all the wrong he did before, loose it.
Make him a joy to his friends,
a pain to his enemies and let there exist for us
not one single further sorrow.



Fragment 24A

you will remember
for we in our youth
did these things

yes many and beautiful things



Fragment 36

I long and seek after


Fragment 47

Eros shook my
mind like a mountain wind falling on oak trees



Fragment 105A

as the sweetapple reddens on a high branch
high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot--
no, not forgot: were unable to reach



Fragment 118

yes! radiant lyre speak to me
become a voice



Fragment 130

Eros the melter of limbs (now again) stirs me--
sweetbitter unmanageable creature who steals in



Fragment 138

stand to face me beloved
and open out the grace of your eyes



Fragment 162

with what eyes?

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the robin chirps at midnight....

  • Jul. 15th, 2009 at 3:38 PM
femmealunettes: (dear lj stardate 4242.4 : Spock)
[Error: unknown template qotd]

Slept 'til two again.
At least I found my glasses...
But where's my muse gone?


Why is "keep dreaming"
a negative phrase? I quite
like to keep dreaming.


"I'll get you some weed"
is a nice promise, but one
that rarely comes through.


Student loans, online
classes, forgotten reading...
crap I need to do.


Harry Potter? That
came out today, didn't it...
accio ticket?

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the one with violets in her lap

  • Feb. 3rd, 2009 at 9:45 PM
femmealunettes: (stay with me lay with me: Sid&Cassie)
when you see this, post your favorite poem.

I am not going to post The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. (SHOCK.)

24A, C, D; Sappho

]
]you will remember
]for we in our youth
      did these things

yes many and beautiful things
]
]
      ]

]
]we live
]
the opposite
]
daring
]
]
]
]
]
]
]
]
]in a thin voice
]


from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson
femmealunettes: (sad Dean in snow)
When you see this, post your favourite poem in your journal.

As I am pretentious, and my favorite poem is still "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by T.S. Eliot, I will post excerpts rather than the entire thing, all right?

And if you are interested, here is an mp3 of T.S. Eliot reading it.


Lines 15-34
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.



Lines 104-119
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.



Lines 129-131
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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I'm sorry I can't know you today

  • Feb. 29th, 2008 at 11:30 PM
femmealunettes: (sick of it and of you : Torchwood)
Oh... it's Friday. I forgot about that. ._.

You know how sometimes you go back to look at old RP logs, and sometimes you find out that the community has been deleted (in a fit of spite) and you can't go back no matter how you want to remember what was going on there? Man, I hate that. -_- Whatever, Olbermann is going up on the Big Wall of Ex-PBs anyway. He was there however briefly, and it was entertaining. Over three years ago. Dear god, I am old and pitiful. I remember when I could spend 18 hours just going at RP and pausing for food and barely for sleep... now I can't even stick to a game for more than a week.

I don't know if i miss being like that. It was fun, but that was right about when I started seriously losing it, and doing things like flunking and getting stupidly attached to the people behind the characters and then came backbiting and infighting and all that soul-crushing stuff.

No, I don't miss it.

Maybe a little.

ANYWAY. What I am going to share right now is not music. It's spoken word and poetry by Utah Phillips, over acoustic accompaniment by Ani DiFranco. I'm going to repost the text to each under the link, because these are flippin' amazing.

Utah Phillips - I Will Not Obey

the new ruling party is holding the aces
the rest of the cards are all missing faces
i'm sorry i can't know you today
what can one say?
i will not obey )


Utah Phillips - Korea

We never traveled together at all, you know, since the kids been little they've always known that I vanished from their lives periodically. And they never really had any idea of what it is that I do. What do I do? If I don't know why should they?

Yeah, Brandon, the fourteen-year-old, he got to travel with me, during the summer. But we got a chance to talk to each other as adults, you know, as - well - as adults, instead of just father and son. We left Boston - we were headed up to the Left Bank Cafe in Blue Hill, Maine - and Brandon, just above Marble Head, turned to me and he said, "How did you get to be like that?"

It's a fair question.

I knew what he meant, but he didn't have all the language to say exactly what he meant - what he meant to say was: "Why is it that you are fundamentally alienated from the entire institutional structure of society?"

what can one say? )And I realized right then, I said, "Brandon, right then I knew that it was all wrong, and it all had to change. And that that change had to start with me."


Please listen to those. I know most of you ignore me when I say that usually, but really this time: please.

can't take this further in this state of mind

  • Jul. 14th, 2007 at 11:28 PM
femmealunettes: (colors! so many pretty colors : Pintsize)
I had this dream again last night
you and I went down to the rocks on clark's cove, looking for shells
there wasn't any light, we found our way through the sand by toetips and fog
I stepped on a shell, slept on the rocks, high tide kissing my cheek.
you brought me elephant toenails and scallops lined with mother of pearl
sand between your toes
beer bottles being turned into seaglass
your rough edges smoothed by the ocean.

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holy shit, it's bad poetry.

  • Apr. 17th, 2006 at 5:58 PM
femmealunettes: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
Let's start a war.
It's not like we have anything else to do today, right?
Crappy jobs with crappy hours leave a lot of time for...
Whatever.
Let's start a war.
I'd say I'd let you take the first shot, but you already did.
Come on, follow it up, don't stop now.
We're the same person on different sides.
Let's start a war.
Get personal, baby, lay it on me.
I won't take prisoners, you may as well be savage.
Do you even remember why you liked me once?
Let's start a war,
Because I'd rather remember a strong enemy than a weak friend.
You know my soft spots. I know yours too.
Teeth and claws, let's leave the bombs for amateurs.
Let's start a war.
I haven't forgotten you enough to remember you favorably.
Not yet, at least. Throw a punch.
Hit me hard enough I'll think we were in love once.
Let's start a war.
You start.
I'll end.

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how can you know and not be crazy?

  • Sep. 19th, 2005 at 1:00 AM
femmealunettes: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
Because any time is a good time for poetry, a meme as stolen from [livejournal.com profile] dougs:
When you see this meme, put a poem that you love in your journal. Only if you want to, of course.

So because I'm indecisive and I have not nearly enough poetry on hand, I think I'll put up something new, something old, and something audio. Bear with me here. I'm on a kick.

Dear Ginsberg, by Brian Martinez )



Footnote to Howl, by Allen Ginsberg. )



And the audio poem: Ginsberg, one more time, reading his own A Supermarket in California.
Here's the file.

I look at you and smile because I'm fine

  • Jul. 20th, 2005 at 12:09 PM
femmealunettes: (working)
in a haiku mood:
summer sun, office crazies,
a broken printer.

fish, corn, potatoes:
a soup kitchen too hot for soup
at least it's free food.

phone just keeps ringing
and ringing, and ringing, and
no one will answer.

Oh no. Goddammit!
I said I wouldn't buy more
BPAL... I'm so weak.

okay, memes are cool
and so is insta-haiku
it's the last one. Here.

Haiku by speccygeekgrrl
twenty years ago
i was kicking the inside
of my mother's womb
Username:
Haiku! by Hutta.


I lied. This is the
final haiku of the day.
(except in comments.)

Tags:

sleepless

  • Jul. 5th, 2005 at 2:00 AM
femmealunettes: (this isn't as easy as it looks)
I can't do it. Sleep, I mean. I'm not tired even though I should be exhausted.

The internet is slow tonight. I don't know if he meant to sign off or if it's Charter being stupid.

I'm too tired to be thinking about this but I'm not tired at all. The drunks are yelling at each other across the street, walking home from the bar a few blocks down, and my dogs are going wild, my dad is going sharp with "Shh! Don't bark."

I almost would rather be a drunk across the street than where I am curled up on the floor with my neck steadily developing a resistence to going back straight. It would be better for my back. To be a drunk, I mean, over a geek at her computer.

I should restart my computer. Maybe go stand on the back porch and get a few more bug bites and a little perspective.

I killed a daddy longlegs today for no reason other than it scared me. It wasn't even moving, just still on the bathroom wall beside me, and I slammed it flat with a Reader's Digest and wiped its thready legs off into the trash can.

Maybe I deserve to be a bug.

The internet is slow tonight, and I can't sleep. If I don't restart my computer I'll never know who's to blame for all of this-- is it me or was it me? or him? or the spiders? I'd point a finger at Ginsberg but he's only where it began tonight, not the weeks before.

It's the spiders. Aah.

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