Love

It's like a bruised twilight
It's like the first star in the sky
It's like a thick, goose-down duvet
It's like the faint shimmer of the nightlight

It's like the sun peeping through the storm
It's like rolling down hills
It's like baking cookies
It's like diving off the high board
It's like making pictures in clouds

It's like holding a snowflake in the palm of your hand
It's like the sizzling air in a lightning storm
It's like the first breath of spring
It's like the tang of a summer night

It's like nothing

And yet, it is Everything.

Wildflowers

Last summer, our family went on a hiking kick. I am not a big fan of hiking. My friends are always talking about how awesome it is when their boyfriends/husbands take them out on a hike, and to be honest, I think I would cry if my boyfriend asked me to go on a hike (I would try to put it off for as long as possible, but I would probably go if he kept asking me about it for long enough). That being said, I really did have a good time hiking with my family last summer. You get such a feeling of accomplishment when you finish a hike. Who knows, maybe one day I'll actually enjoy going on a hike--stranger things have happened.

Anyway, my point is that there were enjoyable moments on our hikes. One of those moments was getting to see all the wildflowers in bloom along the mountain trails. You would turn a corner and all of a sudden there would be a field just covered in wildflowers. So pretty! It was a writer's dream. So guess what...I have another poem for you guys! This one is for my dad.

Wildflowers

As I walked along

The mountain trail,

The rocks seeming an

Insurmountable barrier,

I stumbled around a

Corner, and before me lay

A glorious field of wildflowers.

They were flowers for which

I had no name, and I

Loved them all the better

For it. They were happy,

Unpretentious little flowers.

The juice of the sun had

Stained them a deep

Golden yellow, and they

Swayed and danced to the

Silent song of the gentle breeze.

Lured by their simple beauty,

I left the troublesome path

And walked among them.

As I wove a path

Through my golden little friends,

Something new caught my eye.

Stout stalks, precariously

Topped with a pine-cone of flower buds,

Stood stolid among the weaving,

Rippling meadow of gold.

These little clusters of blossoming flowers

Were blue, deep blue, the

Blue of the sea where men drown.

As the wind convinced my little gold friends

To sigh and dance merrily,

These little wonders oversaw the

Merriment as steadfastly as

Wise old widows.

My weariness from the long climb

Gone, I stooped to gather wildflowers.

Once the deed was done, I

Looked at my treasures,

Breathed in their heady, earthy scent,

And thought "This is Life."

100th Post!

It's my 100th post on this blog! That's very exciting. And what better way to celebrate my 100th post than to post a literary wonder (I am an English major, after all; this is what I do for fun)?

This is a parody of Robert Herrick's poem "To Virgins, to Make Much of Time." It's the one that starts "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may..." Herrick was a Cavalier poet, and the Cavalier poets were all about seizing the day, taking advantage of your youth, having the time of your life, blah blah blah. It was typical for these poems to be directed to women. For an English assignment, we have to imitate some form of literature that we have been studying. In my imitation of Herrick's poem, the perspective is that of a woman speaking to a man.

To Bachelors, To Make Much of Time

Frequent yon health clubs while ye may
Old Time will soon come calling:
The strongest man who lifts today,
Ere long will be a-sprawling.

The stunning king of forests, the stag,
Whose horns have much dissuaded
Those cruel beasts, vixen and nag,
He’ll be left, fattened and faded.

And oh! That time when hair grows free,
Thou art glorious to behold.
But soon your heightened brow—you’ll see—
Will stand out brilliant and bold.

So do not stall, but use your time,
And give a maid a crystal:
For having lost but once your prime

You will remain a-single.

Pablo Neruda

I hate the Spanish class that I'm in right now. The professor is condescending and makes me feel stupid. I get lost every time I try to read something, which also makes me feel stupid. Overall, I just feel stupid in that class, which is especially rough since I go to this class for two hours, three days a week. But sometimes we get to read/discuss something in class that reminds me why I love Spanish and literature, especially poetry. Last week, it was Pablo Neruda's poem "Me gustas cuando callas." Translation: "I Like It When You're Quiet."

Now, you have to understand that Pablo Neruda is one of my all-time favorite poets. He's right up there with Wordsworth and Keats. I will just eat his poetry up. My favorite is "Ode to a Tomato," but this one is running a close second. A really close second. For those of you who know me well will know that my heart melts as soon as I get the slightest whiff of romance. This poem just reeks of the heart-stopping, breath-taking, I'll-love-you-until-time-stops kind of romance. Well, that's what it felt like when I first read it. Anyways, I'll give the Spanish version (courtesy of http://www.neruda.uchile.cl) and then I'll translate it for those of you who don't speak Spanish. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Me gustas cuando callas

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,

y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.

Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado

y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.

Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.

Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.

Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

I Like It When You're Quiet

I like it when you're quiet because it's like you're gone,

And you hear me from far away, even though me voice doesn't touch you.

It appears that your eyes have flown from you,

And it appears that a kiss has left you breathless.

As all the things that fill my soul

Emerge as just things, my soul is still filled.

Butterfly of my dream, you appear to my soul,

And you appear as the word Melancholy.

I like it when you're quiet, and it's like you are distant.

And it's like you're complaining, like a butterfly's lullaby.

And you hear me from far away, even though my voice doesn't touch you:

Leave me in your loving silence.

Leave me where you speak in your silence

As clear as a lamp, as simple as a ring.

You are like the night, silent and full of stars.

Your silence is a star, so far and simple.

I like it when you're quiet because it's like you're gone.

Distant and painful, as if you were dead.

One word, one half-smile,

And I am glad, glad that this isn't true.

New Poem (or Poem-like Thing)!

Dreams

I had a dream last night.

It was a one of those dreams that I couldn’t wait to tell someone about,
But when I went to the kitchen, and saw you sitting at the counter eating your breakfast,
Something changed.
My halo of excitement, which crackled and tingled and gave off its own surreal heat,
Was gone.
Everything was clean and cold.

People always say to follow your dreams.

They say that anything is possible if you just believe,
But they don’t really mean it.
Sure, they want you to think big
And believe that you can be more than a bag-boy at the local Piggly Wiggly.
Real Dreams, of magical powers, princesses and dragons, and millions of dollars, are different,
But they get pushed aside
In favor of a more “realistic” dream—becoming an astronaut, a politician, a businessman.
Is there a child who actually goes to bed and has visions of becoming successful in business?
If there is, I will gladly shake their hand.
But until I can shake the hand of that miraculous child,
I am convinced that children are no more than geese being fattened
For a world that has been meticulously planned and crafted for them.
The dreams that people say we should follow
Are dreams that have been previously prescribed,
Like thick, dry pills that get stuck in the back of a throat.

I had a Dream last night,

But I forgot about it while I ate my Grape Nuts.

Poems anyone?

Lately I can't sleep--probably because my bed is basically just the springs without the mattress and it's pretty much an oven in my room--so I've been writing poems. Nothing like sleep deprivation to get the creative juices flowing! This is my favorite, but if you like it than I can post the other one (but it needs to be worked on a little). So send in your comments, be they good or bad!

Romance

When he pulls your hair in the playground,
And tells all his friends that girls have cooties and that he would rather die than play with you,
But then he picks you first to be on his team for Red Rover.

When you glance across the classroom,
And he's just staring at you, without even realizing it.
When he talks with you at your locker until the warning bell rings,
Then walks you to your next class even though his is on the other side of school.
When he holds your hand for the first time and your whole arm tingles.

When he picks you up from work after a long day,
And he just happens to have your favorite smoothie with him.
When he signs up for classes that he actually hates
Just because he knows you will be there.
When he stays up all night to help you study for the one exam that doesn't make any sense.
When he sees you without makeup for the first time and tells you that you're beautiful.
When he pulls out that little black box and all you can say is "Yes!"

When the wailing of that beautiful baby wakes you, but he gets out of bed before you can.
When he feeds the kids and then cleans up the mess.
When he buys you little presents because he saw them and thought of you.
When you come home to find the kids in bed,
And the formal dining room table is set with candles, paper plates, and pizza.

When you're sitting on the porch,
And he sits next to you, taking your soft, weathered hand in his,
And together you watch the sunlight fade away.

English 218

I was so excited for this semester for two reasons: 1) there are far less people on campus during Spring/Summer than there are in Fall/Winter and 2) this was the first semester that I could take the first Creative Writing class. I love writing, and I really wanted to take this class because I felt that I needed a little help to make my writing the best it can be.
We do writing exercises almost every class period. We have begun studying poetry, and for one of our writing exercises we had to write a poem entitled "Happiness". This is what I came up with.

Snuggled deep under the duvet,
I hear the noisy whispers of my
nieces and their brother.
I peek out and see them
coming in. They crawl to
the very edge, peering and giggling--
sometimes they dare to poke the
sleeping bear that is their aunt.
As stealthy as giant tractors,
they climb onto the bed frame,
test the ocean on top of me, and finally
they leap.

My nephew stares at me,
the stare of a little wise-man.
I have tried everything--he
blinked at peek-a-boos,
yawned at tickles, and
turned away from silly faces.
The boy still stares, boring holes
into my soul until
I am ready to tell him my sins
and weep on his shoulder.
I smack my lips together,
and there it is--the soft smile
that turns him back into a babe
of six months.

There they sit,
the oldest sisters,
crowned by their families,
the glow of motherhood surrounding them
like dust shaken from angel's wings.
As they chatter about diaper brands,
potty training, and baby food,
I ache to belong to that secret circle,
while my younger sister begs me to play.
They turn and smile,
inviting me, and even the youngest, in.
We all four laugh together,
recounting memories from
far away places and
long ago times.

Our giant, our protector--
the man who could crush a hopeful
young man merely with his presence
even as he lovingly carries little ones
on his shoulder--bellows a lion's roar
from outside. Suddenly we are
ants scurrying from here to there,
patiently waiting for
the picnic to be set.
The sweet smell of smoked meat
is tantalizingly strong, and
our father stands amid his
smoldering kingdom.

With a the grace of a swan on a lake,
Mother glides around the house.
Upstairs and downstairs she goes,
gliding from kitchen to living room,
living room to back porch and
back again.
The glow of motherhood does not
simply surround her. She is
steeped in it; it comes from her very pores.
She is benefactress, counselor, wise woman,
comforter.

I am curled up in the armchair,
a blanket tucked around my legs,
an open book in my lap.
Everyone is gone, and
I am encased in silence.

So that's it--that's my poem entitled "Happiness". I've decided that it could also be called "Fourth of July". Tell me what you think!