NOSTAGLIA TO THE EXTREME

It's been a while. I think I've forgotten what writing is.  I don't think I knew what it was before either.

The Memory Keeper's Daughter - Pressure

Author's Note: I wrote this in response to the novel, The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards, and I don't really like this book that much.  I don't know why but it's just one of those books that is like ehhh so I haven't really been writing about the book as much as just about random things going on so this is like one of the poems that is actually about the book.  This poem is about the nurse who ends up keeping the daughter that the doctor/father gave away and it's kind of about how her life has so much pressure and she feels so pressured to make something out of herself and she's kind of just waiting for life to begin with this weight on her shoulders.  I guess, it's just her frustration towards life. 

Glass shards scattered across the wood paneled floor

From broken mirrors -- broken bottles

This beauty is a breakdown

The colorful glass comes from pain

A weak soul -- lost in the universe

The broken glass creates

Patterns

Reflecting light off the ceiling -- the walls

The blank white walls

Vibrant with the colors

I look down at my arms

Dots of color speckle my skin

The sunlight shines from between

The thick curtains, that sweep the dusty floor

The colors surround me -- remembering

The musty church pews

Where I, as I kneeled before the alter,

Watched the spots of color

Play across my interlaced fingers

The tall, majestic stain glass windows

Towering over me, overpowering

Beating me down and down

Smashed to the dirty, worn carpet

Quickly -- run over the broken glass

Grab those curtains

And rip them close

Alone at last in this darkness

No more sparkles of color glimmering

On pale white skin

A weak soul -- lost in the universe

 

The Truman Show

Author's Note: This is my response to The Truman Show. I have three separate topics that I talk about in this response, one being that we all question reality, another is that lying is always lying no matter the reason and the last one is that peace is fake. In the last paragraph I probably sound like an weirdo person but that's okay. Also, I don't really know what I think about this post.

Truman is a man who is doesn't know what to believe in. He's stuck in a world where nothing is real, where he has to real friends, no real love. The people in his world are all actors, playing roles to satisfy every aspect of Truman's life. In reality, we all have moments where we think the same thoughts as Truman does. We look around us and think what if none of this is real? What if there is someone out there controlling everyone? These are impossible questions that will probably never be answered but they are a part of our lives. We have to question reality to know it’s real.

Lying gets many people by in life whether it be lying for protection, lying to yourself or lying to get ahead; it's lying all the same. Truman was lied to for "protection" but the creator of the show never thought that Truman would ever find out but every lie is found out eventually. The creator never thought that the way Truman was living was not life. Life is spontaneous, not repetitive and that's what makes life worth living because if we knew what was going to happen tomorrow or ten years from now then what's the point of living it in the first place.

This is a final post for the second day

Some that upset me is that everyone seems to want peace but it's clearly impossible. There is no such thing as peace, or that's what I believe in at least, it's so irrational that it's hard to believe. Peace is nothing; if we had peace than we would have nothing. There would then be no real opinions and people couldn't think for themselves. Truman has grown up in that type of world where there are no arguments and there aren't any disagreements and we all know how well that turned out which proves my point that a world at peace is a world of insane people.

How to Paint A Water Lily

Author's Note: This is my poem that mimics "How To Paint A Water Lily: by Ted Hughes. I didn't make it exactly the same but I kept the same stanza lengths and the kind of rhyming he does. He doesn't exactly rhythm, I mean, in some stanzas he does but some he doesn't and just uses same sounds so yeah I tried to replicate that. My poem doesn't really make a ton of sense to even me and I wrote it so I don't really know what i was trying to write but hopefully you guys like it!

How To Paint A Water Lily

To Paint a Water Lily

A green level of lily leaves

Roofs the pond's chamber and paves

The flies' furious arena: study

These, the two minds of this lady.

First observe the air's dragonfly

That eats meat, that bullets by

Or stands in space to take aim;

Others as dangerous comb the hum

Under the trees. There are battle-shouts

And death-cries everywhere hereabouts

But inaudible, so the eyes praise

To see the colours of these flies

Rainbow their arcs, spark, or settle

Cooling like beads of molten metal

Through the spectrum. Think what worse

is the pond-bed's matter of course;

Prehistoric bedragoned times

Crawl that darkness with Latin names,

Have evolved no improvements there,

Jaws for heads, the set stare,

Ignorant of age as of hour—

Now paint the long-necked lily-flower

Which, deep in both worlds, can be still

As a painting, trembling hardly at all

Though the dragonfly alight,

Whatever horror nudge her root.

Memories

The seagulls flee across the sand

Hurrying away from where I stand

The roaring waves crash on the shore

The constant rhythm of my stare

I observe the sky and the water

The water, dark blue slaughter

There are no words for this place

Where land meets water - interlace

Beauty so shocking, cold spray

It needs no sun for the day

People roam the lonely beach

Wading, chatter and seashells reached

The sunset rises, air of calm

The sand rough against my palm

Old times come and go

With memories in tow

This beach will see light again

Like spring will see rain

To stand on the rough weeds

Prickles prick at my soles

Leave - there will be more time

No need to cry over a simple dime

Waves will recede through your dreams

Never will you forget these radiant scenes

Author's Note: This poem was inspired by the painting, “Crying Girl” (1964) by Roy Lichtenstein.  This painting is so depressing and that's kind of why I like it.  I don't really know why this painting inspired me but it did and I thought that this poem described it perfectly, to me at least.  Enjoy! 

Why are you crying?

Standing with the City beneath your feet

Under these thousands of lights

Tell me again, why are you crying?

You have style - charm

And beauty

But no heart

No passion at all

You are an empty shell

Left behind on the sand

Deteriorating - fading away

In a crowd - barely missed

You are alone

Completely and utterly - alone

The City is big and yet

You have no one

These city lights are blinding

Lost forever and never

Coming back

That's why you're crying.

Stalking, Seeing, Experiencing

Author's Note: This poem includes some of the things I've learned from the novel, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, and it shows some philosophy that was in the book. I didn't get very far in the book but it's a very difficult read and requires a lot of time. Even though I didn't finish the book there was still a lot to learn from it. It taught that seeing the world in the most raw forms possible is a good way to live and that by simply paying attention can tell us so much about the world that we might of overlooked. This really is a beautiful book and even though it wasn't the most exciting, it was still wonderfully written and very inspiring to read. Also I wanted to experiment with the form of the poem and how people read it. Comment and tel me what you think. I hope you enjoy this poem!


I'm the water.
I'm the earth.
I'm the sun.
I'm the world.
I am the animals, humans and plants.

I'm a free soul.
Left here to explore.
To see.
Because seeing is all we need.
But
No
One
Ever
Sees.

I watch
and I stalk
Along the banks of the rivers
and the fields of wildflowers
Nothing can stop me from
Stalking, seeing, experiencing

I look at the mountain
Then the hills in front of that
Then the rows and rows of trees before that
Then I focus on the things right in front of me
Seeing everything,
Experiencing
Everything

Innocence
The white mist over --
Reality
Separating learning from
Experiencing

The sun is setting now
The light fading from the air
Night - dark - so full of fear
Fear that grows
Along
With
The
N i g h t

Why are we scared of the dark?
The unknown -- scares us
Because at night we cannot see
Fear clouds out beauty
Surprises at every corner

We are so lost in this world
To even start to understand it
We have to ask --
The right questions first
By simply
O p e n i n g
Our
Eyes

A Secret Waiting To Be Spoken

Author's note: This is a scene from my book, Just Listen by Sarah Dessen, I rewrote it so some things are a little different. I wrote this fiction piece in the point of view of Annabel Greene, who starts the year with no friends but has a secret that no one knows about until a boy named Owen Armstrong helps her tell the truth about what happened that night with Will Cash. Her ex-bestfriend, Sophia, is against her because she thinks that her boyfriend, Will, cheated on her with Annabel. I just finished this book and I think it teaches a good lesson. That sometimes, it's better to tell the truth no matter whether you're scared or whether it will hurt someone because if you don't, the lies could make everything worse.

I walk among the crowded courtyard, shoulders bumping shoulders, the hectic pace of the first day of school. The sun beating down on all of us making the air thick and damp. I try to free myself and finally make it too the parking lot, looking for Whitney's red Buick since she was supposed to pick me up today. Oh, wait, I forgot my English, I turn and make my way through the crowd. I thought about the things that have happened this summer as I walked back, with Sophia and with my family, it's been impossible to keep up and sometimes all I want to do is give up.

I have to stop thinking about these things and I push the negative thoughts from my mind. I try to relax as I move back toward the courtyard but then I see him, Will Cash. It seems like forever since I've seen him and I was definitely enjoying the distance. In my mind I start to panic, feeling that familiar pressure on my chest, and getting a weird urge to puke. He spots me and smiles, waving me over. I barely can feel my legs but I find myself in front of his window.

"Hey, long time no see," he says, the smile gone from his face, back to the intense stare that I've dreaded for the past months.

"Well, I've been busy, you know," I mumble and start to turn away. Hoping he doesn't stop me, he does.

"I haven't seen you at any of the parties lately," he says, staring at me.

"Well, I've been busy, see you, I guess," I turn away and walk away as fast as I can, I can feel the vomit rising in my throat. I need to get out of here.

I keep my eyes on the pavement until I reach the courtyard and then all I see is Sophia, staring at me, I can feel the anger even from here. I try to turn the other way to avoid her but she marches up to me.

"What do you think you're doing?" she sneers, grabbing my shoulder to make me look at her, "I told you to stay away from my boyfriend!" Everyone looks at us, the entire crowd of students silent. I can feel the eyes on me and I know what they all label me as but I don't care, they don't know what happened.

I don't answer and suddenly I turn towards her, my hands grabbing her shoulders and shoving her away. All I wanted was for her to go away and just leave me alone. I hear her screaming as I walk away, toward the main building, I can feel it rising in my throat, burning. I begin to jog a little but it's too late and before I even know it I am on my hands and knees, puking in the grass. I feels weird to be like this, so out of control and weak. I can feel myself shaking, shaking so hard I can't get up. I sit there in the grass for minutes as I hear the crowd beginning to clear, as they leave to go home. The last thing I want to do is go home. The last thing I want to do is go home and lie when my parents get home and ask about my day. Fine, I'll say even though I sat by myself at lunch again, being ignored by everyone and was whispered at as I walked the halls, head down. That terrible, gut-wrenching feeling comes over me and I can feel the tears beginning to well in my eyes, my breath stopping short.

Then I see the hand, reaching down towards me and I jump because I hadn't seen it coming. I look up and I see Owen Armstrong looking down at me, his dark eyes just staring at me as I take his hand, pulling me up. He leads me a few yards away then drops my hand and reaches into his bag, pulling out a tissue and handing it to me. I wipe my face with it and ball it up in my hand. This feels weird, standing next to the kid that sat only a few yards away from me at lunch, listening to music. He is so quiet and huge, he towers over me which is kind of frightening, actually. He sort of looms over me for a minute before standing up and walking a few feet away.

"Tha-," I start to say, getting up and stepping towards him but my phone starts ringing. It's my mom.
"Hey, what's up?" I say, glancing at Owen, who is staring at me.

"I'm sorry, Anna, but Whitney can't come pick you up, she saw a sale at the mall and missed the movie so she's staying for the late showing," she quickly explains, "I could come pick you up but-" I could hear in my moms voice that she was busy.

"It's no problem, Mom, I can get a ride," I try to sound cheerful as I sit back down in the grass, plucking up some grass in between my fingers.

"Okay, thanks, Annabel, I love you and I got to go," she says.

"Bye, Mom, love you too," I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket. I look up at Owen, who is still standing there, earphones in his ears. Music is a constant for Owen, it's what he's known for. I get up and walk over to him.

"Thanks, again," I say, pulling my bag over my shoulder. I smile at him and he smiles back, which kind of surprised me. Owen armstrong does not seem like a happy type of person.

"No problem," he shrugs then says, "so how about that ride home?" he smiles again.

"Sure," I say and I follow him toward the parking lot, thinking that I'm about to get into the car with some complete stranger but for some reason I feel more safe than I had in months. I can hear the shocked whispers of the few remaining students as we walk back through the main courtyard but I didn't care want they thought and maybe, as I look back at this moment, I did sort of know that Owen would do more than change my life, he would become the most important part of it.