(no subject)
Totally ignoring the small pile of schoolwork that needs to be done. I am very bad at doing secretarial duties. I am also steadily becoming worse at math as every schoolyear passes and the equations get huger and more difficult. Being lazy like this makes me feel sad, and feeling sad makes me lazier, and so on and so forth. What a terrible cycle. On the other hand, I've decided to stop thinking so hard about what I put here, which is a relief. (Yes, I have been thinking hard, I know not why. The entries squeeze themselves out agonizingly slow, and half the time I'm not even saying anything. Jeez.) I don't know why I have to state things like that - my brain just works better if I make lists or creeds or promises. Otherwise, it just puts off and off and off.
I'm no good at non-writing-ish writing, you know. I'm never honest enough. Too many worries. (Of course, I am hoping that no one understands what I'm currently rambling about.)
I am entirely too amused that we are taking up Beowulf in school (we're only provided with about three pages of translated poem, but I really like the way this translation was done - by Burton Raffel), and that I have written Grendel-angst for English individual work (some mutation of required seatwork that usually involves too much research and too little time). YES, Grendel, the cyclops-ogre-bloodlusty-ugly-thing-with-a-mommy. And angst. I don't know - the idea that just because he is a descendant of Cain he is raised in evil; that all creatures like him will be punished forever and ever, never to know God's love, born in mud and sin and darkness only to be killed by warriors-slash-heroes...it feels like injustice. Of course, then we would have to tackle the side of every villain in the history of epics and fairytales and modern fantasies, which would do no good. Why did Eris throw the apple of discord? Why was Maleficent so fricking evil anyway? That sort of thing. But I love the so-called bad guy's perspective when done right: Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister is one, and the story Medusa in the fantasy anthology Firebirds is another.
Any reccs of similar stories would be greatly appreciated. I have so much to read, but I lately I have had a huge craving for something short and beautiful. ;_; Someone, please oblige me.
In any case, I might encode the Grendel angst sometime. If I get to sneak home the draft, at least. The parallels between what I wrote for him and some parts of Leaving Eden frighten me, though. Because Grendel and Vincent shouldn't have parallels at all! Oh well. Writing flimsy sin and the idea of it, however risky the religious overtone, always makes me happy.
not luminescence in the
wings of a moth fluttering
against silk screen paper.
not the rattle of a loose
cent in a tin can half-empty
against a litter-filled road.
not the first tear of the
sky glancing down your
cheek in early july.
not the newsprint meaning
to fictionalize the present,
herald the so-called truth.
not the patchwork of a
woman's skills in three shades
of feeling and nine stars.
What is love
for country?
All right, so the first not had nothing to do with the country at all, and only the last not was even somewhat related. I have been no good at poetry for some time, now. I'm such a cheater it's almost funny. x_x
They snatched the song from her lips,
although it was not the pearly jewel
they imagined; not crystal or garnet.
Open air is better for tone than a chest,
but why would a pirate know so much?
Purity was the decadence of her fingers
over her swanlike starchwhite throat.
It would not have hurt quite as much
had they slit it right then, I believe.
The melody was not a bird's calling
in a bare forest, not a trill or whistle.
It was a cold wave of silence like
a smooth rock drying on a beach.
Eventually, her tongue loosed a note
that rang like a bat's echo in a cave.
(It may have been a cry of help,
but I like to think she was laughing.)
Highly nightmare inducing. I have no idea why that image presented itself to me, also, my poetry is mutating into awful, awful prose.
I think I'd better do some real work, now. #_#
(PS, I always put down the wrong tags, don't mind them EVER.)
I'm no good at non-writing-ish writing, you know. I'm never honest enough. Too many worries. (Of course, I am hoping that no one understands what I'm currently rambling about.)
I am entirely too amused that we are taking up Beowulf in school (we're only provided with about three pages of translated poem, but I really like the way this translation was done - by Burton Raffel), and that I have written Grendel-angst for English individual work (some mutation of required seatwork that usually involves too much research and too little time). YES, Grendel, the cyclops-ogre-bloodlusty-ugly-thing-with-a-mommy. And angst. I don't know - the idea that just because he is a descendant of Cain he is raised in evil; that all creatures like him will be punished forever and ever, never to know God's love, born in mud and sin and darkness only to be killed by warriors-slash-heroes...it feels like injustice. Of course, then we would have to tackle the side of every villain in the history of epics and fairytales and modern fantasies, which would do no good. Why did Eris throw the apple of discord? Why was Maleficent so fricking evil anyway? That sort of thing. But I love the so-called bad guy's perspective when done right: Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister is one, and the story Medusa in the fantasy anthology Firebirds is another.
Any reccs of similar stories would be greatly appreciated. I have so much to read, but I lately I have had a huge craving for something short and beautiful. ;_; Someone, please oblige me.
In any case, I might encode the Grendel angst sometime. If I get to sneak home the draft, at least. The parallels between what I wrote for him and some parts of Leaving Eden frighten me, though. Because Grendel and Vincent shouldn't have parallels at all! Oh well. Writing flimsy sin and the idea of it, however risky the religious overtone, always makes me happy.
not luminescence in the
wings of a moth fluttering
against silk screen paper.
not the rattle of a loose
cent in a tin can half-empty
against a litter-filled road.
not the first tear of the
sky glancing down your
cheek in early july.
not the newsprint meaning
to fictionalize the present,
herald the so-called truth.
not the patchwork of a
woman's skills in three shades
of feeling and nine stars.
What is love
for country?
All right, so the first not had nothing to do with the country at all, and only the last not was even somewhat related. I have been no good at poetry for some time, now. I'm such a cheater it's almost funny. x_x
They snatched the song from her lips,
although it was not the pearly jewel
they imagined; not crystal or garnet.
Open air is better for tone than a chest,
but why would a pirate know so much?
Purity was the decadence of her fingers
over her swanlike starchwhite throat.
It would not have hurt quite as much
had they slit it right then, I believe.
The melody was not a bird's calling
in a bare forest, not a trill or whistle.
It was a cold wave of silence like
a smooth rock drying on a beach.
Eventually, her tongue loosed a note
that rang like a bat's echo in a cave.
(It may have been a cry of help,
but I like to think she was laughing.)
Highly nightmare inducing. I have no idea why that image presented itself to me, also, my poetry is mutating into awful, awful prose.
I think I'd better do some real work, now. #_#
(PS, I always put down the wrong tags, don't mind them EVER.)