Category: Poetry


Grey

A new poem for you all. I hope you like it.

Grey

Monochromatic amidst the chiaroscuro haze of time
Memories lost, found, forgotten, repressed, fade into
The background—grey.

Standing wondering staring into nothing,
Stumbling on memories, looking from afar;
The colors faded—grey.

A lifetime of struggle and heartache she’s faced—
Disappointment, pain, sadness, fear—
But none of it mattering now—grey.

Emptiness and loneliness leaving her feeling
Small, helpless, forgotten.
Wanting to fill the void—grey.

Slashing violently through the grey,
Glowing green and growing,
A swathe of color begins to shine

The heartache of the past further obscured,
Further separated, further healed.
Light breaks, contrasts sharpen

She sees herself mirrored,
Magnified, reflected back. All the memories,
All the history, all the haziness of time torn away

The void takes shape; the shape begins to fill,
As her heart is mended, slowly, and as the scabs
Fall away, she looks again—grey.

Grey changing, bubbling, mottled now with
Points of light, bright and clear
Her background begins to disentwine,

And the colors become clear,
Darks and lights, neons and mutes,
What’s clear is it’s no longer—grey.

She is who she is, her past
The palate from which her canvas
Is carefully colored

The streak of green keeps growing,
Glowing verdant against the colors
eschewing from the grey beyond.

Her heart thaws, warms, beats,
A fire, viridescent flame, emerald passion
Envelops her, born for the growing green form

Her prayers answered, no longer alone,
She begins to take heart, she embraces
The virid figure taking shape,

Turning the girl from grey to white—
All color encompassing, infinite possibility—
And the void is filled,

The background vivid and colorful,
Imprinting their hues on the girl,
But she’s encompassed them all,

Not despairing, but sublimating,
Taking advantage of the lessons learned
Looking forward, entwining fingers

With her emerald companion,
The world takes form and color,
And washed away is the—grey.

Cocoon

Inching forward, miserable worm:
         Incapable
                   Insipid
                             Irrelevant.
Wishing for warm cocoon’d escape
         Inch.
                   Inch.
                           Inch.
                                    Inch.
Nibbling leaves, barely surviving
A worm’s life—
life: does a worm deserve such lofty appellations—
         Inch.
                  Inch.
                           Inch.
                                    Inch.
Finding space, cocoon spun,
         Safe!
                  Warm!
                           Metamorphing!
Time has wrought a marvelous change
From worm to beautiful butter—
         Fall.
                  Deranged.
                           Mutant.
Something’s gone wrong.

Burden of Wisdom

I had to write a sonnet for a Shakespeare festival. This is my attempt at it. I hope you like it!

Knowledge is a burden, Wisdom a curse.
Alone I sit with thy infernal words
In veins you course and havoc wreak, like swords
in diabolic plots, the blades which verse

Destined to be buried in men’s live hearts,
And then, our lives to flotsam changed
Adrift in death’s dark sea. Wisdom imparts
Useless thoughts for our now brackish, estranged,

Encumbered souls. The words Wisdom doth speak
Unto the weary dead do sound as a
Folly. ‘E speaks with words of life which wreak
Havoc to we, the freshly dead. Give way

O Wisdom, leave us now to die in peace
Floating here, we sailors find our release.

Looking Backwards and Looking Forwards

Ho-kay. I know I don’t have a whole bunch of readers, but the complete lack of comments on the last entry tells me 1)I really am as bad at poetry as I thought I was or 2)Poetry isn’t you guys’ shtick, so I think I’ll refrain from any poetry posting here. Maybe some day I’ll make a separate blog for that.

In other news, I’ve been working on my application to attend Oxford for the Spring semester of 2009. To be completely frank, the very idea creates in me a giddy anticipation of the adventures (quests?) the trip will hold for me. At the very same time, that idea creates in me a nearly debilitating fear and trepidation that I’m nearly unable to work on the application process at all.

The last time I was considering doing this was just last year. I was thinking about going to Oxford this past fall semester, and following that trip up with a semester in Russia during this semester. I wussed out. As it turned out, though, what with all the crazy stuff that went on with my head, it’s probably a good thing that I didn’t end up going then.

As far as what I’ll do if I get in, I already know because I had to pick classes and things as part of the application process. For those of you who don’t already know, the British do things a bit differently in their university system than we do here in the states. I had to pick a seminar track, and a primary and secondary tutorial. The seminars are like typical lectures, given by a number of different faculty members at Wycliffe Hall. The tutorials are just that: one-on-one meetings with faculty to discuss readings, go over papers, etc. The style is largely self-motivated, because you only meet with your tutor once a week, and you have to make sure to get your assignments done in the meantime.

Looking at all the many different tutorials they offer, I decided on these, under the English Language and Literature seminar track. Primary Tutorial: Linguistic Theory; Secondary Tutorial: Old Norse Literature (which will be entirely in Old Norse, which they’ll teach us how to read); Alternate Primary (in case I can’t get into it): The History and Use of the English Language; Alternate Secondary: Old English Literature (Again, it’ll be in Old English, which they’ll teach us).

Those may or may not sound at all interesting to you all in the vast internets, but I can’t wait. ‘Course I’ve got to get myself accepted first. Wish me luck, and please forgive me if my next post is some ramblings as I try to straighten out my application essay.

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