Broken Hearts and Chasing Light

My mind is filled with the recent tragedies that have struck our world one after another. The devastation and the pain hurts so much, and my heart aches for the victims all over the world.

Today a friend, Israeli and French, told me that she's leaving school next week to go be with her family instead of finishing the semester because the Paris bombings and shootings shook her so much. I can't imagine what it must feel like to hear about a shooting like that and not know if your family is safe.

I also read about new explosions in Nigeria that happened today, and again my heart breaks that the deaths continue to rise day after day. I see videos of refugees piled into boats trying to find safety anywhere and instead meeting violence and rejection and hatred from those who cannot understand their pain. There's not much I can do here and now except for pray, and pray, and pray and learn how to always better love the people who are here around me.

I wish I could gather the world together and share my heart with them. I want to show them that we're people, God's creations, made in His image and for His purpose. I don't understand why that isn't enough.

No wonder so many people feel so hollow.

Take out God and all you have left is a shell. A shell of a person. A shell of a world. We're so broken and so unwilling to be fixed. It hurts to have found the light and realize that the people around me are so unwilling to open their eyes and see. 

I found this poem today, though, by poet Tyler Knott Gregson, and it seemed like such an eloquent wording of what I want to say. I know that sorry doesn't solve anything, but sometimes it can help.


I'm sorry for the gunshots, the bullets, the pain,
I'm sorry for the blood that won't wash out with the rain.
I'm sorry for the bombs, the explosions, the tears,
I'm sorry for those that take pride in our fears.
I'm sorry to the world we keep scarring with our hate,
I'm sorry for those that think it's too late.
I'm sorry for the chaos, the confusion, the madness,
I'm sorry for the mornings stained with fresh sadness.
I'm sorry for the terror, the darkness, the night,
I'm thankful for all those, who still chase the light.

The Magdalen, A Garden and This by Kathleen O'Toole

Last night I stayed up an hour later than intended working on the first draft of my non-fiction piece for my Creative Writing class. I think it's going to be a braided essay, though at this point the paragraphs splashed together don't sound like much of anything. It needs a lot of work still.

But my piece is all about names, about how much of an impact a name can have. How much of an impact my name has had, or names, as I explain in the piece. I know I have owned a lot of names throughout my life, and they all mean something to me, something I'm trying to learn how to explain as I write this essay.

This month I have also read the story of Mary Magdalen meeting Jesus in the garden three times. This story is from chapter 20 of the book of John. I read it with my Christian Club on campus and then at a poem share with members of my Church someone brought a poem about the story. Last night I came to it in my Bible readings on my own.

Every time I hear this story I can just imagine Jesus standing there saying her name, and I can imagine Him standing beside me telling me my name, and it's just so powerful. There are times when someone says my name in just such a way that it becomes so much more than just a name. My boyfriend can say my name in a way that makes me feel like I finally took a breathe of air after almost drowning. My mom can say my name and turn me into a child sitting against her lap or into an adult who she loves and is proud of and know will be okay. My sister can say my name and show me that she knows, she understands, she's always here for me.

All of this in the way they say my name. The carefulness of a combination of sounds and letters spoken so carefully with so much meaning and so much history and so much future. (When the people I love say my name I can always hear that they are pronouncing the C. I can hear the difference between C and K.)

I can just imagine Jesus telling me my name. I think I would be like Martha. That would be the instant when I recognize Him.

I think of other mentions of names in the Bible. (There are a lot. I could probably write hundreds of posts about names and never end.) God is always so precise about naming, about changing names, about the meaning of names. I love it.

However, to avoid trying to write hundred of posts in one, I'm going to end here, quite abruptly because my writing classes have tired out my writing brain today, and leave you with the poem I mentioned. Because it's beautiful. And powerful. Almost makes me want to cry.

The Magdalen, A Garden, and This
(by Kathleen O'Toole)

Strip all else away and we'd know only
that she was grateful, that she found her way
to the cross, and that she returned

to the tomb. A disciple for sure, not
Mary sister of Lazarus, or the woman caught
in adultery or she who angered the men

by anointing Jesus with expensive oils.
This Mary of Magdala only named as one
from whom he cast out seven devils, followed

until that first day of the week, in the garden,
where, weeping at her loss, she was recognized,
became known in the tender invocation

of her name. Mary: breathed by one
whom she mistook for the gardener, he
who in an instant restored her--

gave her in two syllables a life beloved,
and gave me the only sure thing I'll believe
of heaven, that if it be, it will consist

in this: the one unmistakable
rendering of my name.

Peace in the Midst of my Mind

"My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness." -Virginia Woolf

This quote, and many others, are now colorfully pasted around my room, on the wood frame of my bed, on the small strips of wall beside my window, on the edges of my book shelf. Writing quotes is like therapy. It calms me as I listen to the scratch of pencil on paper and finding the perfect quote fills me with a deeply reaching happiness which I am not sure makes sense to other people.

Today in class I sat with a group and we played with alliteration to create the perfect titles for each chapter of a story we are working on. It's a fun project; we're given complete freedom over what we choose to do. While we worked we talked about words and why we write.

We talked about poetry and even the teacher commented when he stopped by to check on our group. "You're eyes are glowing."

The truth is, there is something so very very satisfying about finding that perfect word, that perfect phrase. One of my friends said: "Writing is magic. I don't think people understand that." But I do. I understand the magic; it makes sense to me.

As I sit through classes and listen to published authors talk about how they got to where they are now I wonder what I'm doing with my life. Starving artist is just an inevitable fate for me, because there really isn't anything I can do well except write.

But for me that's enough. I am happiest in the moments when I can sit somewhere solitary and comfortable and pull out a pen and one of my many poetry notebooks and just let words flow out of me. There is so much emotion in poetry. I can write so few words but I'm saying so much.

It's been a hard couple of weeks. I've been emotionally drained, my whole body tense from stress that shouldn't even been there, my head spinning with worry and longing. But throughout these days there have been so many moments of words.

Sitting in a patch of sun for class, just writing. Talking to my writer friends about the best kind of notebooks and our favorite pens. Writing poetry on my bed. Listening to yet another PoeJam. Reading a book of short stories that each seem to tear at my heart.

Words are so peaceful.

So powerful. 

Existence Beyond the Canyon

Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck on some twisted roller coaster. Yesterday I spent a vast amount of my day taking personality tests for my characters and doing some research for each type. My main character, Equity Blue, came out as INTJ, which also happens to be my boyfriend's personality type, and I spent forever reading every detail on that page.

It's so crazy to me to read that this personality type "may go so far as to claim they have no emotions at all." Of course the site explains that INTJs aren't just cold-blooded and emotionless, and in fact may have deeper feelings simply because of the fact that they typically don't pay much attention to feelings and therefore aren't used to feelings when they do arise and can't just be pushed down.

My INTJ boyfriend does have a tendency to just kind of push emotion aside. He'll just kind of shut down emotions and have a good day because there's just no rational reason for being sad or angry or any of those negative emotions, so he can just let the rational, logical side take over and act as though he's emotionless. I know he's not, and I probably get to see more glimpses of the deeper emotions than most, but still.

I am an INFP, and kind of the complete opposite. Emotions swoop in and sometimes it feels like there's nothing I can do about it. I'll just feel sad for no reason, even after the best day imaginable, or I'll suddenly get these massive burst of happiness when suddenly I can do anything and be anything. I can't imagine being able to tone down the emotion and choose to feel a certain way. I just don't know how.

I think this is part of why my main character for this next book is an INTJ. It's like my way of imagining what life would be like from that other perspective. I'm building a character who is so different from myself, and right now during this break in life as I wait to hear back from some job (any job {I handed out three more resumes today and got an interview set up Monday for City Market}) I am taking the time off to really explore Equity's brain and find out how she functions and why.

That sounds kind of weird now that it's written down, considering this character exists only in imagination. I'm going to drive myself crazy by talking to these voices in my head.

I want to write more, my fingers are full of energy tonight. But it's getting late and I have to work out and read a couple chapters of my Bible and maybe one or two more from my current read Wizard of Earthsea before I head to sleep. Plus, my computer battery is about to die and I am one of the laziest creatures on earth right now and my plug on the other side of the room is just too far away. See? Emotions. I get sad for no reason and then that turns into laziness. It's a never ending struggle.

Here's a poem I am considering using as a part of Equity Blue. Definitely needs some work, but here is a preliminary draft. It should definitely have some punctuation as well, but as I said, laziness. So here's a first draft, enjoy. Thoughts on improvement always welcome. Or thoughts on whatever, really.

I write the stars into existence
with a flick of my hand
create their blinking eyes
watch them dance against the black paint
of this night sky

I write the sky
because I cannot stand the earth
I sit in a cave made of books
and tread lightly
head down
so they will not even know I breathe

I do not belong
in this earth of deep canyons
tearing through the desert of my heart
and I long to escape the flash floods
and crushing weight of rockslides
pushing me always further down
into the crevices of this dust

The furthest I can see from earth
is that white hole in the black sky
and all the twinkling little stars
who mock my cage
and laugh at gravity

With a flick of my hand 
I write the stars into existence
and dream-
how this ink makes me dream-
that I, too, can one day
fly away.

Reviews: 5

My Eyes are Raining

I've decided to challenge myself to write something on this blog on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Three days a week shouldn't be too impossible, right? I'm sure once I get a job (if I get a job. I'm reduced to applying to Wal-Mart, City Market and McDonald's...)  writing might get a little harder, but as long as I remember I think I can do it without a problem.

Today was a lot of board games, a "product party" for a product I can no longer remember the name of, the movie Totoro (in Japanese so I can practice), the beginning of the second book on my reading list: Wizard of Earthsea, a grocery shopping trip, and a phone call with my best friend. Despite still not having a job and not getting the phone call back from the internship position which I was really hoping for, I had a really wonderful day, and it was only partially due to the fact that I bought a new skirt yesterday and I always feel a little better when I look cute. Hm, is that too vain to put up on the internet?

I've also decided that in some ways this blog has turned very much into a poetry blog, so I'll try and include poems in my posts. I have yet to decide if I want to include a poem in every post, though. I'll see. For now, here is another attempt at a Pantoum. This style of poetry is kind of haunting me and I just can't seem to get it right.
Also, disclaimer, aside from just not sounding good, my pantoums also tend to turn out rather needlessly sad. I'm not sure why. I really did have a good day, I promise. I haven't cried at all in the last three days, which is actually really good. I know, I know, I'm kind of a crybaby. I didn't even cry in Totoro, though, and that's a sad movie. So this is one of those cases when the speaker of the poem is not the same one as the writer. The end. I'll stop rambling.

the light touch of rain
draws the drops from my eyes
pulls up old strands of pain
and the echos of cries


drawing drops from my eyes
my tears tempt me
with the echos of cries
to be drowned in my memory

my tears tempt me
to lose sight of the sun
to drown in my memory
and forget what you've done

to lose sight of the sun
means to choke on my grief
and forget what you've done
and forget my belief
 
I mean to choke on my grief
pull up old strands of pain
and forget my belief
in the light touch of rain

Keeping Things Whole- Mark Strand

These last few days have been a whirlwind. Friday morning my sister drove five and a half hours with me to go visit some friends from the college she went to before transferring. One of the girls graduated Saturday, so we went to a diner for dinner and then tried to watch her graduation the next morning. Unfortunately, we didn't get any seats in the graduation building and decided watching speeches on a screen just wasn't the same. That, combined with a Colorado May 9th snowfall, sent us back on the road for the drive back up the mountains. I finally see why I should consider actually learning how to drive and getting my license. My sister would have loved some driving help...

Saturday afternoon we got back to a houseful for another friend's graduation party. We ate massive hamburgers (or at least I tried to finish mine) and drank soda from mustachioed straws and played Apples to Apples. All of this under streamers and balloons hanging from all over the ceiling.

Although by the end of the day my inner introvert was crying for solitude and wishing I had a room to go hide in, talking about hiking and climbing and writing and reading was fantastic. I still laugh at myself for how easily I get carried away talking about books and poetry. 

Still no job update, but I'm hopeful that tomorrow I will get some kind of phone calls either finally finishing the search or letting me know that I need to print out more resumes and hand them out at every store in town. In the meantime, I'm trying to encourage myself to write something. Problem is, I'm not sure what I would rather write- poetry or stories or work on a novel, and Wuthering Heights has captivated me so much that I can't seem to put it down long enough to focus on writing. 

In fact, I'm quite sure the only reason I'm writing this now is because I'm at my brother in law's grandma's house and Wuthering Heights is stuffed in a closet back at my sister's house with all the rest of my stuff. The documentary about Henry the Eighth isn't quite enthralling me, even though I know literature and history are supposed to go together and I should like history. But it's about time for an update anyway. So here it is. Tonight I'll chop off some more chapters of reading and hopefully soon I can find the time and enthusiasm to write my own page turner. 

In the meantime: a poem by someone else.

Keeping Things Whole by Mark Strand

In a field 
I am the absence 
of field. 
This is 
always the case. 
Wherever I am 
I am what is missing. 
When I walk 
I part the air 
and always 
the air moves in   
to fill the spaces 
where my body's been. 
We all have reasons 
for moving. 
I move 
to keep things whole.

The Atmosphere

Today I filled out two hotel job applications, one daycare/preschool application, I went to one pizza place interview and called about setting up an interview at a resort. This whole process feels so slow and while it isn't incredibly hard, I feel it wearing on me. Am I applying to the right jobs? Am I saying the right thing? Filling out the correct information? What job should I take? Will any of them even accept me?

It's tough, and I wish I could just enjoy a few days with my sister without this constant pressure to find a job. I hate that money has to be so important right now, and I hate that every second feels like it should be preparing for the next. I just want to relax. I want to take a break from that tornado year of college. I want to get a job so I can stop worrying about getting a job.

Adult life stinks.

But- I am with my sister, and at the very least we got to take a break from chaos to paint each other's nails and go to a beauty salon to be practice models for the hair people practicing for the big wedding season. We got more than we bargained for, sitting in salon chairs for two hours while they tried off a bunch of hair techniques.

Also, I've started reading Wuthering Heigts at the advice of several good friends and it's intriguing. I  so excited to be reading again. Just in two days I've read six chapters and I'm reading on my own for my own pleasure. I hope eventually this enjoyment of reading will pass on to writing and I can get back to writing more than just poetry, though I have enjoyed the poems and definitely don't want to stop writing those either. I just want to write. For now, here's a poem.

The Atmosphere
blankets my worried breaths
as I count the seconds that make up infinity.

Distance feels like a stone
pressing down my chest as I attempt to reach
the other side
wherever that side might be
whatever that side might hold

But the full moon gives me hope
and reminds me how words can carry
across the globe
even when I cannot. 

Beating Hearts

Today is the last day of April, the end of my poem a day. I missed a couple, and a few times I shared poems that weren't mine, but I did it, anyway. A poem a day for the month of... April. Hm, how come they didn't make May poetry month?

Anyway, I got a little bit of sun today, and celebrated the end of Journalism and Creative Writing by walking down to Starbucks with my writer friend and window shopping in expensive clothes stores. It's so nice to have a break, and I think my friend knew I needed one after a rough morning.

I woke up to a lot of sudden huge thoughts that I hadn't really confronted yet, and spent the half hour of "getting ready" time trying to write my thoughts into words. I was a minute late to my final Journalism class in which we discussed big issues in the world and "how to solve them," but I needed to take the time to write this morning. Sometimes it's like my thoughts don't really exist until I put them onto paper. Or at least onto a computer screen in most cases.

This poem is actually a second (or third? Maybe fourth?) draft of a poem that I wrote yesterday after checking out our school's Creative Media Major final projects and then laying in the grass soaking up as much sunshine as I could. Here it is: the last poem of April. 


Beating Hearts

Beauty is the beating of my heart,
the flutter of butterfly-wing air
as I breathe in
and breathe out
and close my eyes to feel the white film
dance across the skin of my face
as I imagine the sky
and feel the grass tickle the back of my neck.

All around me students curl their old projects
into folders and boxes
and I remember the creative media displayed
and the themes that sung throughout.
In these projects,
beauty is self-loathing,
depression,
hatred,
fear of failure-
and none of us want to admit
that we are facing darkness,

yet from that darkness we make art

and the art
we can share.

But Beauty is far from self
because self is broken and beat
and beauty is me
alive
in Him. 

Beauty is the beating of my heart
as it beats His praise.
Beauty is the song on my lips
that I sometimes cannot sing.
Beauty is the light of His sun
warming the insides
of my self.

The Mountain- Elizabeth Bishop

So for whatever reason I just spent half an hour planning out a bucket list. Unfortunately I only have nine things on my list so far. See, when there's something I want to do I find a way to do it as soon as possible. And I don't want to have a bucket list full of impossible things that I don't actually plan on doing. But, I do have a sort of beginning list now, so maybe it'll be a good reminder of things I should do?

While browsing Pinterest for Bucket List ideas, however, I was surprised at how many of the things I had already done. I don't mean to sound like I'm bragging. I've just had such an incredible, blessed life. I ought to make a list of Bucket List Worthy Things I've Already Gotten to Do

Anyway, poems aren't working out so well today. That poetry muse seems to have abandoned me, and the novel muse hasn't come back. I feel abandoned by my words.

So here is a poem by someone who is not me:
 The Mountain by Elizabeth Bishop

At evening, something behind me.
I start for a second, I blench,
or staggeringly halt and burn.
I do not know my age.

In the morning it is different.
An open book confronts me,
too close to read in comfort.
Tell me how old I am.

And then the valleys stuff
inpenetrable mists
like cotton in my ears.
I do not know my age.

I do not mean to complain.
They say it is my fault.
Nobody tells me anything.
Tell me how old I am.

The deepest demarcation
can slowly spread and sink
like any blurred tattoo.
I do not know my age.

Shadows fall down; lights climb.
Clambering lights, oh children!
you never stay long enough.
Tell me how old I am.

Stone wings have sifted here
with feathers hardening feathers.
The claws are lost somewhere.
I do not know my age.

I am growing deaf. Bird-calls
dribble and the waterfalls
go unwiped. What is my age?
Tell me how old I am.

Let the moon go hang,
the stars go fly their kites.
I want to know my age.
Tell me how old I am.

Ungraciously- Matsuo Basho

I bragged about getting to go somewhere after church and garden and eat a non-cafeteria meal with a real family. Today allergies are making me question that choice. I really hate cats.

I finished my first final period and we stumbled through what felt like a painful presentation, but hey, maybe I learned something from having to share my final grade with a group. I still would rather work alone, hands down, no questions asked, but I guess I survived the group projects anyway.

After that and work and some more packing I tried to study for my Japanese final tomorrow. I'm pretty sure the study sheet really does just have mistakes in four of the questions. I know that isn't one of the sentence structures we learned about. I sat on the floor for a while sniffling and blowing my already Rudolf-status nose and trying to make everything make sense, but eventually gave up and started watching a documentary about Studio Ghibli in Japanese with English subtitles, so that it would count as studying...

Now it's only 9:30, but I'm thinking of taking a benedril and letting my body fall asleep. I did get miserably sick last finals week, so maybe it would be good to be extra precautious and make sure this allergy doesn't turn into anything else. Of course, to do that I have to reopen that suitcase I packed and zipped earlier today because brilliant me packed away the benedril. I thought I had done such a good job of making sure I had all the meds I would need in a different container. I guess I was just planning on stealing my sister's.

Anyway, before I sleep here's a blog post, and a poem not written by me because today I am sick and tired and have a complete lack of energy and inspiration. So here's a poem from a real poet:

Ungraciously

Ungraciously, under
a great soldier's empty helmet,
a cricket sings

Fragil Stems

Today after church a family invited me over for lunch and I got to sit outside because the weather is back up to fifty. I helped the woman work in the garden and I made faces at the cats who wanted to play with me even though I kept explaining to them that I am allergic and can't pet their soft-looking fur.

I've never really experienced spring, and I'd say that if this lack of sun and miserable half-hearted rain is Spring I could certainly do without it.  Still, watching those little plants try to poke through the surface was beautiful and exciting. There's something so freeing about working so close to the dirt.

Today was a really good day, refreshing, peaceful. I got to get off campus and forget about packing and schoolwork and finals and everything else in my life. It's been hard watching the people around me get so stressed. So many of my friends are facing huge choices and asking me for advice I can't give, and others just seem to be in various stages of falling apart. I think that's one thing I've learned from this first year of college. We're all falling apart, it's just a matter of how much and how noticeable.

Thank goodness for that One who can glue us back together, or just work on us through winter to make us completely new again come Spring. I just have to take a deep breath and believe that I can be some kind of beautiful flower.

Fragile Stems

We are fragile stems-
leftover from winter-

trying to grow. 

The wind blows,
rain forces us to bend,
the whole world
wants us to
fail.

One broken blade of grass
can't help another stand,
and yet I curve
toward you,
desperate to help
though
I can only watch you break.

We teeter here
in the blowing wind,
the lingering mud,
hoping
that we too
can be made new. 

Doesn't Work

And I missed a third day...
I was so excited to write something and I just don't know what happened. I think sometimes life is just too hard. Blog posts get moved out of priority positions.

Yesterday was my last day of normal classes. I made it through this semester somehow. After class and work I went to our school's "Spring Meltdown" festival, even though I still have yet to see the sun other than those two beautiful days way back where. The festival was held in the gym instead of the lawn outside because it was too cold.

I got cool fake tattoos but everyone knows me too well and I couldn't trick anyone into believing they were real. I also went to the Christian Club's end of the year party and ate spaghetti and talked to people while the majority of the group challenged each other over Smash.

Today has been Skype calls and failed attempts at packing while keeping my sanity intact.

My brain
doesn't
even work.
Pieces all over.
I
try to hold
on
but

everything is chaos
and the clothes
on the floor
just don't fit.

I'm leaving again.
Again.
Again.
Don't even count the times
and my life is
all over.
doesn't even work. 

Weasels and Bagels

I didn't post a poem yesterday! Oh no! I am a terrible person. What can I say, pre-finals week, end of my first year of college, no sun, and beginning of packing. There's a lot going on. I did, however, start to write a poem today and I guess something distracted me and I didn't finish so here's what I started writing. I know it's no good, but like I said, pre-finals week. 


Today I'll dive straight into a poem.

I am amazed at how the world can fall
at how my heart so quickly finds a wall
and all the peace I felt is washed away
I try to take life day by day by day


Now it's midnight and I should really be sleeping because I like sleep and it's very important to me and I stayed up past midnight last night too. But here's a poem:

There once lived a little lease weasel
who lived in a little brown box.
The weasel enjoyed eating bagel
and loved to curl up inside socks.

One day as the weasel was eating
he realized he needed some jam.
The taste of a bagel is fleeting
but lasts so much shorter than ham.

So weasel went out for adventure
to find some good jam for his bread.
He found a strawberry picture
and jumped till the roof hit his head.

The weasel danced up to his human
and pointed to strawberry jam
to make his bagel less bland
and therefore his day much more glam.

This is dedicated to my boyfriend and my failed communication at the end of our Skype date today. Still, even if it's just weasels and bagels, I'm so thankful for this guy who can make me smile so much even after such a long day.

I also got to Skype a great friend from Colorado and talk for an hour and a half, which was awesome and so refreshing to talk to her again. All this technology is a beautiful thing.

Lesson 1- Julie Alger

So I wrote a couple of poems to God this morning, but unfortunately have nothing to share with the blogging world tonight.

It gets worse, too. I don't even have anything to say about my day. I went to class and work and class and it drizzled every time I stepped outside and I never saw the sun. We got to make Matcha, Japanese powdered green tea, in Japanese class today, but that was the most extraordinary thing that happened.

It seems like a good day to share this poem called Lesson 1 by Julie Alger:

Lesson 1

At least I've learned this much:
Life doesn't have to be
all poetry and roses. Life
can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,
electric bills, dishwashing,
chapped lips, dull stubby pencils
with the erasers chewed off,
cheap radios played too loud,
the rank smell of stale coffee
yet still glow
with the inner fire of an opal,
still taste like honey.

There is No Title Today

Today was the All College Reading, the last reading of the semester. I still love just sitting there listening to poems, even if I'm alone like I was today. Some of the poems were really great and I read a couple of mine and feel like maybe I'll be confident enough to turn in my portfolio, though I know I'll never think it's finished and I guess that is one of the beautiful and horrible things about writing.

I wrote a longer, more thought through poem today, but decided not to share it. It's been an emotionally rough day even if overall I can't complain that it wasn't a good day. Maybe I really am just that much of a child of sunshine that lack of sun really does make it that hard to smile. Today was rain and grey clouds, and according to the internet I can expect grey rain for the rest of the week as well. Oh well. Rain is beautiful in it's own way. In the meantime here is a not so beautiful rain poem.

There is No Title Today

The rain here smells like skunk.
I breathe in
deep
and want to choke.
Maybe it's not the rain,
maybe it's the smoke from cigarettes.
Someone in my Concepts Class
proudly announced
he'd smoked a joint that morning
to celebrate April 20th.
I don't fit in with these college kids
and I don't want too.
The rain today
makes me feel too old.

After Peter Pan in the Spring

Today was crazy full and eventful, something that doesn't seem to happen very often. I started off going to church where I now have a friend to sit next to every week, a blessing I hadn't realized how much I needed. Then I met a group of friends and we went to a Japanese festival where I got to try on a kimono and watch incredible drummers and try my hand at Japanese archery. It was great.

I then did a little bit more homework, but still need to choose my pieces for the portfolio which is kind of stressing me out... I should just draw titles out of a hat.

Then I went to another friend's dance performance and got to see some super talented dancers show off the work they've been practicing all year. I love watching dance, even if I have zero rhythm and know I could never be a dancer for many, many reasons. Still, it's great to watch others, especially when one of them is my friend. I like dancer friends.

I finished my day watching "Finding Neverland", the story behind the story of Peter Pan, and forgot how sad it was. I usually make it a point not to watch movies that could be even remotely sad here in college. I try stick to brainless chick-flicks that will make me laugh. But tonight I wanted something book related and this one showed up on Netflix so I ended up crying a little over these characters and telling myself that I need to get back to writing and write something as wonderful as Peter Pan.

Instead I just wrote this poem about the movie about the play which is also a book...

Maybe I should add a little disclaimer, I'm also still stuck in this awful seasonal sadness and I need the sun to come back and the wind to go away. It has been a lot warmer, but it's still cold enough that sun is a precious commodity and I'm going crazy. My poor little Oaxaca soul doesn't know what to do with all this cold.

After Peter Pan in the Spring

I fall into Neverland
when the sunbeam warms my dorm-room floor.
Music plays words I don't know
but I hum along as I lay in the yellow square
and my eyes close all on their own.

Everything in this junk drawer head of mine
soaks into the carpet
and I believe for once that I can fly.

The ocean is my sky
and I count jellyfish or stars
and they are all the same,
and my eyes are still closed.

Neverland is a breath of peace
or sometimes just a breath at all
and I forget to think about the things
I need to remember.

Instead Neverland is all
emptiness and childish inklings
and the characters I'll one day share
like spilled marmalade sticking to a wash cloth.

The yellow sun drops through my window
and I forget the dead tree in the yard
and pretend that there is always sun
in my own Neverland. 
 

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note- Amiri Baraka

I'm not entirely sure what I did today. A lot of sitting around and sort of waiting for something to happen. I've reached that point in the year where I feel restless. I want to rearrange my room, reorganize my desk, travel. In two weeks I leave for Colorado and I feel impatient today. I know it's probably a little too soon to start packing, but I'm restless and I know I'm going to end up packing anyway and living two more weeks of my life out of a suitcase.

Since I knew it was too soon to pack, though, I spent the day trying to find other things to do, working on homework that isn't due for another week, trying to braid my short hair.  I even took a walk thinking I'd feel better if I got out of my room. Eventually my roommate convinced me to go splurge on a milkshake so we walked downtown and then window shopped in the mall and came back up to campus to watch Taylor Swift music videos and a chick flick.

Unfortunately, now I feel tired and extremely unpoetical. Plus I am thinking I should do the homework due Monday... I mean, finishing all my Thursday homework was great, but Monday comes first...

So  here's a poem by Amiri Baraka instead of one by me. I found this for my Creative Writing Anthology and I love it so much. I have no daughter, and my mom isn't here, but tonight I will be talking into my own clasped hands and giving God all the thoughts clouding up my mind.

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones)

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands.

Excellent Somehow

Tonight was the Academic Excellence Dinner for my school's Communications and Creative Media Division. People with a GPA above 3.6 were invited and given certificates and then after dinner we sat through hours of specific awards within each major.

I'm a freshman, and freshmen probably don't get awards at this kind of thing very often, and while I'm pretty involved with writing related things I'm not one of those people starting my own magazine or anything. Anyway, my friends and I got in a little late (getting ready for formal events takes time...) and barely found seats. We ended up sitting next to that favorite professor, which made me pretty happy. Also at the table was the head of the language department and I had a blast talking in Spanish again, even if she spoke South American Spanish instead of Mexican.

As we're sitting there my Professor looks over and asks if I'll help him pass out papers. I laugh and say sure and then realize he's serious and wants me to join him on stage and hand out the awards. Of course at that point it's too late, and pretty soon we're standing up to cross the room and get on stage. I stand up, take three wobbly steps in high heels that I really shouldn't be wearing since I can't walk in heels, and then all the envelopes with the awards slide out of the folder onto the floor.

Luckily, my professor didn't notice and just laughed that I took so long to get to the stage with him. I hand out the certificates and envelopes to everyone he calls up (managed not to give the wrong one, not to drop anything else, and not to trip) and of course then he says my name last and talks about how I came from Mexico to chilly Vermont but brought all the flavor and spiciness with me.

So now I have a twenty-five dollar gift card to Amazon, a certificate with my first AND last name spelled incorrectly, and a crazy amount of pride and excitement and reassurance that I probably am in the right place after all, even if winter lasts too long and food isn't spicy.

I know this is probably more than enough writing for today, but it didn't end there. I left the event a little early and as I was waiting for my friends to come out one of the editors of the Literary Magazine, Willard and Maple, came up and said they've been talking about getting me more involved in Willard and Maple. Nothing formal at this point, but he wants me to drop in the office hours and help him and next semester's editors plan out the next edition of the magazine and sort of carry the torch for future classes of Willard and Maple.

It's so crazy, because my favorite professor had mentioned to me the idea of being the Lit Mag editor and since then the idea had seemed really great. But now I've kind of been officially invited to go down that path. You have no idea how excited I am and how much I feel like a writer tonight but also how crazy and surprising this all is at the same time.

A poem (one of those Japanese Tanka's I talked about yesterday).

Excellent Somehow

Sometimes excellence
comes after dropping papers,
trembling hands on stage
while you read off the winners,
and then I see my own name. 

Constellations in the Coffee

Today is Thursday again, the mad rush of class after class and homework during my one hour break. But today we paraded through campus in a single file line and wrote Japanese poetry during my Creative Writing class and the sunshine felt so beautiful.

In Japanese class I had to hold my eyelids open, but I only missed one word on the quiz and someday I will write those Japanese poems in Japanese. In the Literary Magazine class we reviewed art instead of poetry, and the change of pace was nice, as well as the enjoyment of getting to look at pictures instead of straining my eyes over more words.

Then I went to a poetry reading. (I feel like, outside of  class, I spend the vast majority of my college time attending writing-related events.) Anyway, this one wasn't student reading. Nancy Means Wright came and read some of her poetry as well as a retiring Champlain professor and Jim Ellefson, my academic adviser, favorite professor and old man mentor, even if he isn't fully aware of this last part yet. All three poets were fantastic, much better than the previous two non-student readings I'd attended.

Anyway, the whole reading made me happy, and kind of wishful, and hopeful, scared about the future? I'm not really sure, but there was a lot of emotion and a reminder of why I'm here in Vermont of all places and why I know that no matter what else in life, I want to write. I was going to post one of my Japanese poems but this one came out after the reading and I like it more. So here it is, enjoy.


Constellations in the Coffee

The lamp makes constellations in my coffee cup
and my heart feels like an astronaut;
my ribs are too tight.
I stir the coffee faster,
as if I might find answers there
but this time all I see is a wooden stick
and I imagine how the splinters must feel.
I hear the poems I want to write
and my novels cry "betrayed,"
but the longing keeps my space-ship body spinning
and I know earth is too far gone.
No matter where I look
my eyes find constellations.

You

Okay... so I was trying to write a Pantoum... but turns out this is still not a pantoum. Maybe at some point I'll go back and fix this, or finish it and fix it, but for now here's something at least.
I hope you all realize that these blog poems are usually very much first drafts and not my best work. I'm saving that for the publishers. Anyway, here you go:

You

You held me like a feather in the wind
And kissed my head as if to kiss my scars
You pulled my heart the way the planets bend
And freed my soul from fear's constricting bars

You kissed my head as if to kiss my scars
And healed the pain I hid behind a wall
And freed my soul from fear's constricting bars
So I could live to fly and not to fall

You healed the pain I hid behind a wall
You pulled my heart the way the planets bend
So I could live to fly and not to fall
You held me like a feather in the wind