a lot of rambling, some of my old poetry. :) if you stick with it, there is an awesomely embarrassing poem at the end. shouldn’t even be called a poem.
1. probably the most exciting positive thing happening out of any kind of heart problem (metaphorical) is probably the poetry that arises from it. (not being 100 percent serious…)
2. this means, the peak of poetry writing needs to be NOW (no midterms this week, make it happen). not because the poetry will be the best, but i’ll be most motivated to actually write.
3. i just realized, i’ve been writing poems since i was in seventh grade…9 years give or take a year.
4. it’s like an earthquake. if you die, fine - you die. if you survive, you got to deal with picking up the pieces and run with it —
5. i’ve written a lot of poems in my life (rest assured, all of them are bad.) - i’ve forgotten so many, though i’m sure many would be familiar. tonight, this one line kept coming back to me.
here are the ACTUAL lines
Heavy are the moments,
weight of skin holding in place;
till life like breath - sinks.
Pick me up, and
carry on. ***
*edit* that was an earlier version of the poem. final version was
because nobody (nice,
i guess) likes breaking
anybody’s heart,
please carry on.
heavy are the moments,
(life like breath)
so pick up the heart on my hands
and carry on.
here’s what i remembered:
heavy are the hearts
pick me up, and carry on.
ezra pound would say —> second one owns, and i agree.
6. in a harold bloomesque way, i realized that this poem was affected by a poem significant to me (that i wrote during senior year). here it is, the title is “a poem she couldn’t understand” — bold added.
we, both, written in different languages,
different words, different letters,
are trying
to understand and fill in the gaps -
perhaps curiosity drew us near,
but it could not keep us here
for long
gone are the curious moments -
i have since found that yours is undecipherable,
and i have since learned you too are unable
to know mine.
and when my hands return from comforting my face,
after they reach towards the heavens and shake,
and alas, when they return to come home to me,
to serve me, then we will see -
this is a final good-bye -
because it is a good time
to do so,
i’ll pick up my things,
you’ll take yours with you,
but before you go away with only with what you came,
please take this gift, a piece of my world with you.
he opened his hand, scrawled upon it was his heart,
and he gave her his favorite words that she couldn’t understand.
uhm… stephanie, if you read this… somehow contact me cause i have something cool/funny to tell you!
note* i fear goodbyes. surprisingly, i like people.
last, as i was looking for the poem to quote in my files, i came upon a really lovey dovey poem. i am going to post it, because it makes me kind of smile because beneath my angry asian face, this is what i do in/on/about/under/over/beside my free time. HAHA man i am laughing looking at this… embarrassing… try not to judge hard.
poetry should just be called love-try
I can write in words what you mean to me
and its best done through poetry
here’s an example
like rain falling on a thirsty face
you make me feel so nice, giving me memories I don’t want to erase
like the the first that a boy receives
you’re a memory of mine that never leaves
or, like the last bite of my apple pie
everything you do makes me feel so right.
—-besides spelling errors, this is the actual poem. first of all, TERRIBLE rhyme scheme, TERRIBLE flow, TERRIBLE metaphors, TERRIBLE ending. there’s not ONE good thing i could point out about this poem. this is the antithesis of poetry. which is exactly why i like it.
**also noticed today how i hate being labeled. when people say you would do this in the future, i cringe. i think that i think that being unpredictable gives me more control. whatever, i’ll do some soul searching later. for now, i go to sleep for around 2 hours to go to long beach, back to berkeley, back into reality, nice reprieve, but Lord teach me the ways of this war.
