Because I have 4 Papers to write
Since I haven't updated in a while I will grace all of you with my literary presence... (ha!) Now, without further ado....The beginning of a work that is torturing me:
He wakes, watches himself rise, vain in his reflection. Always routine; one yawn, rubbing his eyes already shot red from exhaustion, not that you don’t sleep. Ignorance may be his highest power, yet perhaps the most pitiable because he lives in disguise: the refuge of a man afraid to own his own feelings, who could not say, this is what I like, this is what I am. He never asked for praise, maybe naturally expecting it, while deserving none. His character was pitiable but also detestable all the same. Still, “Someone had faulted…” was all that could be said.
It is my creative writing project for my Eng 101 written partly in my own style and partly Wideman style who is the auther of the last book we read. I'm writing it about my father, but the fact that I wanted to include so much "art" to this work is killing me. The idea that everything can be displayed in some sort of Post-modernist aestheticism, which of course is my ultimate artist goal as far as my literary achievements are concererned. And obviously i would love to win a Pulitzer (of course with someone's help or vice versa) But if I don't it won't bother me so, I don't have those kinds of expectations for myself.
Christmas is coming fast, and I feel more like Scrooge this year, maybe when I go to Monson on Saturday to get my tree from the now famous Ketterman's (sp?) I'll start feeling the Christmas spirit. Furthermore I have already bought a present, and boy I do hope she llikes it (see i'm already nervous)
As it is I've now spent enough time away from the inevitable so I will leave you with a poem: (It's long so be prepared)
And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.
About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.
I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.
What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.
But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.
To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
explanations,
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.
You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
made
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.
Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love.
He wakes, watches himself rise, vain in his reflection. Always routine; one yawn, rubbing his eyes already shot red from exhaustion, not that you don’t sleep. Ignorance may be his highest power, yet perhaps the most pitiable because he lives in disguise: the refuge of a man afraid to own his own feelings, who could not say, this is what I like, this is what I am. He never asked for praise, maybe naturally expecting it, while deserving none. His character was pitiable but also detestable all the same. Still, “Someone had faulted…” was all that could be said.
It is my creative writing project for my Eng 101 written partly in my own style and partly Wideman style who is the auther of the last book we read. I'm writing it about my father, but the fact that I wanted to include so much "art" to this work is killing me. The idea that everything can be displayed in some sort of Post-modernist aestheticism, which of course is my ultimate artist goal as far as my literary achievements are concererned. And obviously i would love to win a Pulitzer (of course with someone's help or vice versa) But if I don't it won't bother me so, I don't have those kinds of expectations for myself.
Christmas is coming fast, and I feel more like Scrooge this year, maybe when I go to Monson on Saturday to get my tree from the now famous Ketterman's (sp?) I'll start feeling the Christmas spirit. Furthermore I have already bought a present, and boy I do hope she llikes it (see i'm already nervous)
As it is I've now spent enough time away from the inevitable so I will leave you with a poem: (It's long so be prepared)
And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.
About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.
I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.
What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.
But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.
And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.
To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
explanations,
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.
You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
made
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.
Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love.