IT'S ALIVE!!!!!

I'm back! Marching band is over, so I finally have a little spare time to blog again. :)

I'm still warming back up to this, so today's poem is something you've seen before, but with a few added stanzas. I can't find anything on this confounded computer, otherwise I'd give you something new. :P But I trust you can bear with me.

What have you all been up to in these autumnal months of my absence?

Arachnophobia
(a poem inspired by make-up and mascara: two very evil, addicting drugs of the modern world)

 Her eyes were like flies’ eyes,
How they shone back the light in five thousand colors
Like multi-faceted black-and-blue diamonds
Shuttered beneath butterfly eyebrows.

Her lips were silkworms as she
Pulled thread from her mouth
Full of teeth-eating maggots
To weave a skirt like a spider’s web.

 Her dress drew me in:
Spun like candy floss it looked so sweet,
A lovely eye candy treat
Swirling about katy-did-ankles.
 
Her hair—it writhed,
Like insubstantial ringworm ringlets,
The Gorgons’ modern siren-child,
Tipped not by split ends but teeth
And hungry, blank black eyes.
 
The lies she lied were locusts,
Jumping out at me and scratching my skin with their
Grasshopper claws and lying eyes.
 
Her hands were like spiders,
Spindly, five-legged carnivores
Attached to praying mantis arms,
Twitching across the sticky thread
Reeling between her silkworm lips.
 
But as I think about it,
It was not her hands but her eyes that preyed
Arachnid-like on my face,
Hungry for my flies’-eyes eyes.

Math on the Brain is Never a Shame

In Other News: I'm getting published! My 900-word life story is being published this month in an anthology of local life stories! Eeeeee!!!

In Other Other News: I love children... Two little 3-year-old twins are staying over with my family tonight because they're in the foster care program, and foster parents can't leave their kids with just anyone when they go on vacation. I miss having little kids around the house... :)

In Other Still Unrelated News: What is this? A somewhat-consistent posting schedule? Since I have creative writing every other school day, you can probably count on hearing from my every time I have that class. Woo hoo!

Today's creative writing class was, as always, a joy! I taught the lesson today along with one of the newer students. We decided to talk about metaphors. We brought a bunch of different items like a plastic snake, a bottle of shampoo, gloves, a hacky sack, and other such oddities, and had the class think of them in a metaphorical sense. Most of us drifted more toward personification, but that's okay. I got to share my favorite poem, so I didn't really mind what happened after that. What can I say? I love to share.

The object I used as a metaphor was a paper airplane, and my previous class was math, which obviously influenced the wordplay.

A Play on Geometry Lessons

I am a plane
No shape nor dimension defines me
Lines pierce me and fiercely I try to resist all the wearing and tearing
You hold me and fold me

and now

I'm a plane
No shape nor dimension defies me
You can throw me or bow me decrease all my edges but as my wing fledges
I soar

Flat no more

Writing Exercise: Creative Vomit and Beautiful Words

EAL always does these little teaching moment things, which I think are super cool. Well, I decided to give it a try myself. The following is my greatest weapon against writer's block (aside from mowing the lawn).


Creative Vomit: The Ultimate Inspiration Tool

Today in creative writing we did one of my favorite exercises: stream of consciousness writing (or as I like to call it, creative vomit). For those who are not familiar with the term, stream of consciousness writing is a tool  to extract ideas from your brain. I think it is one of the purest forms of ideas and inspiration: raw and unedited, like the "unrated" versions of R-rated movies, only generally less crude (really, it's one of the stupidest marketing ploys I've ever seen, but, then again, I don't watch R-rated movies).

How To Do It

1. Find a quiet place.
2. Get a whole lot of paper or use a computer. You're going to be writing a ton, and you don't want to run out of paper halfway through a thought.
3. Choose a topic to start yourself off (for example, one of my streams started at autumn and ended at accidental homosexuality (It's not what you think! It's not! I'll put up the paper when I find it)).
4. Write. Write every little thought that passes through your head, no matter how weird, dumb, abstract, stupid, etc. etc. you may think they are.
        4.1. Set a timer. Don't lift your pen or stop typing until it goes
               off. Start small: 5, 10, 15 minutes is a good start. Once
               you figure out how it works, you can work up to longer
               periods of time.
        4.2. DON'T worry about grammar or punctuation or spelling.
               You can edit after the timer goes off.
        4.3. DON'T edit before you record your thoughts and
               don't edit until you're done. You waste time and ideas
               by doing that.
        4.4. DON'T look back at what you've written.
        4.5. DO go off-topic. If you stray back to your original topic,
               you're forcing yourself. Don't. Let your mind wander.
               Most of your good ideas will come about 3-5 minutes into
               writing as long as you let them.

Most people's streams look like a massive wall of text, but mine end up looking more like poetry. Every person vomits differently, so don't worry about making it fancy.

An Example of Stream of Consciousness Writing

My thoughts were pretty fleeting and I had to leave halfway through to go see my stupid school counselor (gr) to talk about a class that I don't want to take but my parents insist I do so I can get this stupid scholarship. (Try saying that sentence in one breath). Well, not stupid. I'm just bitter because the counselor wasn't even paying attention (she was unpacking a printer, I think), and I was on a roll in my writing! Don't you just hate when that happens?

Notice how sometimes my thoughts are coherent and sometimes not. Like I said: my thoughts were fleeting. Also, don't feel obligated to read the whole thing, as I have more to say at the end and it's pretty long and incoherent.

Did I mention it's incoherent?

and sometimes maybe then such so someday but not just today you joy yes because then tomorrow indeed inword if please

if i calm my mind i have nothing to say, no words tho think or thoughts to speak, not anything will come on the words or the p[age with be blank as my mind that’s not thinking, not a thing to be said, not a thing to be said, no thoughts to band e thinking or thinkings to think, void of void nothing there, no time to spare i must fill up the spaces with thinkings and places to roam far from home and certainly i am quite alone but it’s not something i mind, no, not at all do i mind being one of a kind, im just as good as i can be here yes

the birds did not cry out today
as though they had no thing to say
and the sun stayed low in the sky without a reason to pass through the highway is this the end?

sylvia plath i am not alone am i?

and tomorrow i have work to do
and
is my favorite word without end to the sentence and phrase and and and and and and

chillllllls
up my spine
can’t be min
but they are

how to write a sonnet what shall i do
i haven’t the foggiest,
no, i have no clue,
no, i haven’t the fogiest
can rhyme yes?

appease my diseased mind
no food can quench this hunger, no water slake my thrist, but first i must find these reasons that i’m not good enough in the first place
and if i were younger, maybe,
taller, thinner, stronger, quieter, healthier, prettier, doubtless,
doubtless i would love me
too

quiet as two am
sun syrup
my favorite thingsssssss

if i imagine then i am a celebrity in my own mind
mustn’t get caught up with myself

qwertyuiop is a word indeed

ther’s a certain slant of light i’ve been told that slants a certain way. certainly.

i am alpha so i think. i sure am glad i’m an alpha. white is such a pretty color.

listen to the camera flashes. I amd famous aren’t i?

alevoli

i could have olive oil if i wanted. olive oil and rosemary

what does the heart race?

my heart beats with a clockworktick

words want to be marriedtogether always indeed

inword and indeed

idon’t like hymns but i do love poetry
i love music but not singing
no

p l e a s e
and then
because

i am sick i am tired
yeah
carry me

poetry is not paragraphs but lines of literature

what is an illiteration?

i need to i need to i need to

oh what a thrill my thumb instead of an onion!
and my mind isn’t right

look at me look at me
repetitoin is so utterly important
why aren’t the important words repeated?

supercomma to the recue!

internet poets are doing it
wrong
like me.

i want someone to love meeeeeee like i do
please

just as things were geting good look who showed up to wrruin it all\

look at all that empty space on the page
it must be lonely
like me

fill me darling
with something
like sweet
or cool
fill me chilll me like your icebox, glacier cyhunks and bread hunks
hunkny
huny.

gills were made for breathing

poets should not take anatomy. you don’t speak with your esophagus, nor do men have breasts.

water breathing under it please surface little fish for you are dorowning.
no im’ not
i have gills and frills for swimming
do not save drowning fish from drowning
mister chinese man
writeen by a chinese woman

iiiiiiiiiii
staring eyes
on faceless ps and qs
are what exactly

look at creative vomit it still looks just like poetry
coming out of me
that kame out of my brain
my pretty little head
i can’t rhyme with dead or dying anymore
hackneyed, gross, cliched cliches

out of sight out of mind so they say
who they are?

and polluted

pinkies will be gone soon as well as feet and appendixes and tears

o brave new world with no people in it.
ione word is all it takes.

The Diamond in the Midst: Drawing Inspiration from Your Own Thoughts

So there's 30 minutes of stream of consciousness. The next important thing is to use it.

When you've finished writing for your 10-15 minutes, read over everything you've just written. If you typed up your stream, print it out. If you wrote on paper, obviously that doesn't apply.

Take a highlighter and find one, two, three lines that you absolutely love or can expand. I put the lines I liked (they're at the beginning of my stream) in bold. Pull them out and write again, but this time you are allowed to take your time and follow the rules of grammar and spelling (you're welcome).

The first line of my stream turned into this (also, no, the internet didn't mess it up. I formatted it that way on purpose):

The Most Beautiful Words

                                                p l e a s e
because then you AND i__________
someday AND

just m a y b e
because       then >/if/< we
AND \                    / indeed
        > tomorrow<

maybe then                                 such
s   o         |such|
maybe ////not////          TODAY

but then                            yes
            t  o  m  o  r  r  o  w AND sometimes
us

So there you have it: stream of consciousness, essentially. If you try it out, I would love to see your creative vomit (in part) and what you make of it! Email it, post it on your blog, whatever.

It Started out So Well

I’ve already checked all my symptoms and diagnosed myself.
I sought out cures just for you,
But it just isn’t enough
To appease my diseased mind.
You tell me I’m good enough,
But I see right through your lies when your eyes don’t smile the way your lips do.

Why didn't I finish it?

What were my thoughts one hundred-and-one days ago?

How should it end?

Why didn't I finish what I started?

Dang.

ROMance

What a day...

I woke up at 7:00 and rushed out the door to get to school before 7:30 (an obscene hour, if you ask me). Thankfully the girls I take with me found other ways to get there, but I still feel... well, dumb. I didn't even turn on my alarm, for heaven's sakes!

It's been a helter-skelter kind of day.

My brain is helter-skelter, too.

On one of the blogs I follow, the main topic of late has been the author's adventures through an online relationship. Ten posts long, so far, and apparently there's more. :O

Now this is, mind, a seventeen-year-old, in-the-thick-of-puberty-and-high-school take on things, but the only online "dating" experiences I've ever had were bad ones, as in a guy said he loved me and turned out to be a creeper, so I blocked him and moved on.

But can it really work? (eHarmony says it can, but you can't trust corporations these days.)

I find it hard to believe that you can really truly fall in love with someone over the internet. I can see how you could find someone of interest or someone you might like to take on a date, but love? I don't believe in it. There's something so intrinsically cold and unfeeling about internet relationships. I enjoy you, my readers, and all your jokes and feedback, but I could never see myself falling in love like that (especially not the ladies. Heavens, no).

But I do see the appeal. I like to think of my blog as "concentrated Alexa: all the opinions with half the obnoxious." My real-world friends can probably attest to this, except they all comment via Google Buzz rather than on my actual blog (I'm telling you, you guys are missing out by doing so. Just sayin'). So boys who would usually be repelled by my loud and wonderfully annoying personality might find me super appealing, attractive, and insightful (if I do say so myself) on my blog.

So, being the poet that I am, I wrote a poem expressing my feelings with more than a little alliteration. Admittedly, my favorite part of this poem is the title. Aren't I just... just so clever? You don't have to answer. I already know I am. }:)

ROMance

I don’t believe in love at first site.
I cannot discern personality from pixels,
Character from characters,
Or status from stat messages.
I find nothing exciting in email,
Attractive in AIM,
Or fun in Facebook.
I do not believe in e-harmony—
Or e-chemistry—
But,
Then again,
It’s never happened to me.

What about you, readers? Will you have an internet marriage, or a traditional courting experience? Do you use the internet for laughs, or finding your soulmate? Or flirting, for that matter? (Like those weird Zoosk commercials. Honestly, who actually does that?)

Ah, But There Are No Excuses For What I Have Done

All the same, let's not jump to conclusions.

These weeks preceding the start of school have been on heck of a ride, which is why most of my readers have assumed my death (well, so I assume). But as my seventh grade science teacher once said:

When you assume, you make an *** of u and me

 She swore in class, and our young minds were scandalized. To this day I have yet to recover....

She was kind of mean...

My past aside, I felt it only fair that I post something since I haven't posted anything for almost two weeks, I think. If I were following my blog, I would drive me crazy like that!

BUT FIRST I want to blab about school for a while, because reminiscing about seventh grade has put me on a tangent.

This being my senior year, I get to take fun classes! My schedule turned out great, because I have two hard and two easy classes every day. My schedule goes something like this:

A Days: Symphonic Band (because I don't practice enough to be in wind symphony, our school's top band), AP Statistics, AP Political Science (I must be crazy, but the subject fascinates me and taking it in college will be no easier), Creative Writing 2 (I'm Editor-in-Chief this year! Woo-hoo!)

B Days: AP Literature (I still haven't finished the summer homework... :O ), School Newspaper (our editor-in-chief isn't high this year (last year my favorite activity was listening to the EIC describe all the drugs she was taking and how she thought she was a rug once when she got high)), Cooking 2, Seminary (religious instruction, for those who don't know.)

And then there's marching band, which is a totally different story.

It was a long summer and boy does my brain need a workout! I'm taking AP Stats this year and our first homework assignment was to review some algebra II concepts. It felt like I was reading a foreign language! But I'm not worried, because although math is not my lifelong dream, it's also far from my lifelong struggle.

Speaking of homework, I need to wrap this up and chat about this in a different post, because I still haven't finished that math assignment or that summer homework.

I've deliberated about this for a while, as far as what to post, because I wrote quite a few things in the past few weeks and before that I never got around to posting. Naughty me... So as an apology for being so exceedingly tardy, here are a handful of poems on a variety of topics! Hooray!

Two Inches

The mind is an ocean about two inches deep
filled with fishes slipslidesuffocating,
mechanical spasms in the open air,
or rotting in a heap of twisted herringbonehearts,
blackblank eyes and
other suchthings.
 
The mind has storms above that shallow sea.
It reaches out coldwhitefingers
Among the half-rotted herringbonehearts
Still beating
Then lowlaughs fleeting down at me.
 
The mind is solemndark and gruesomegloom
Alone upon the sea-expanse
The corpses watch with mindless dread
As I give in, lay down my head
Slipslidesuffocating on the ground,
And with two inches wait to drown.

For once, I'm going to talk after a poem, because I didn't want to make you wait any longer. The first stanza was written on a day when I literally felt as though I was drowning inside of myself. I was unhappy and anxious and altogether not feeling well. The second and third stanzas were written during a late-night thunderstorm. Thunderstorms are excellent times to write because usually the power goes out and there's nothing else to do, but also because thunder and lightning are very emotional. In fact, if you think about it, a storm can express any range of emotion.

City Lights 

The fireflies blanketed cross the sticky flytrap strip greeted my glancing eyes.
I freed a few on my passing past by,
I wanted to watch them float,
Often alone, but sometimes in pairs,
Sets of lovebugs speeding on.
 
They stop for brighter lights than they,
And then go quickly on their way.
They’ve no time to thank me, no,
They’ve miles to go before they sleep,
And some their marital promise to keep.
 
I thought they formed fireworks on that formidable field
Of blackness. I find it strange that they would yield
Themselves up and stay there, stuck,
On the sticky stripe of dark,
Those orange-and-yellow fireflies,
 
Who pass me by, without a care,
Sometimes alone, but often in pairs.

I should have been watching the road more carefully, but city lights in the rain are so mesmerizing... (thankfully no one was on the streets when I left my friend's house on the eve of this poem).

Pool

 Blue chalk squeaks on the end of
A white pine pole leaves marks on
The cue ball clicks and rolls across
The green felt scarred and stained by
Cigarettes and coffee create a haze.
 
The balls clack together as
The game begins by breaking
The triangle explodes into a thousand colorful
Points are scored by
Sinking spirits as
Points are lost by
Scratching my initials in
The table.

 Fingers arched, I set my sites on
The eight ball thunks into the back left
Pocket filled with loose change for
The jukebox music joins the haze of
Coffee and cigarettes in the billiards hall.

I've never actually been to a billiards hall, but that's what the imagination (and movies) is (are) for! This is an older poem, but still a favorite. (I'm also not good at pool, but I can dream (and watch movies)...)

Forget Rhyme Schemes. I'm a Rebel.

IN OTHER NEWS: I'm probably worrying too much (as usual), but I was just curious if you, all my readers, like my blabbing before posting poetry (like what I'm writing here). I've been looking at a lot of other poetry blogs and I've noticed that no one else seems to chat about what they've written in each post like I do. Does that make me unique, or is it annoying? Do you read my little introductions or skip right to the blockquotes? Just curious.

ALSO IN OTHER NEWS: I will be on a short LOA from the internet for the next two weeks or so, as I am leaving for a camping trip on Wednesday and then it's time for band camp! I'll be playing trumpet this year, for those who are interested. Anyone else do marching band (or color guard, for that matter)?

This here's a poem I wrote the other day inspired by a fallow field of alfalfa by my house. There were thousands of dandelions just waiting to be used for wishing, but I resisted because they actually grow alfalfa there and they wouldn't appreciate me spreading the love. I abandoned the rhyme scheme in the second stanza because I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with "farm" except "arm," and I couldn't think of a way to make that sound un-cheesy. (Actually what happened was I got bored and it made sense the way it was. ;)

Also, I haven't decided on a title. ;)

How many wishes d’you think lay concealed
In the corners and pockets of alfalfa fields,
Cotton-white dand’lions nodding their heads.
Forget about wheat; let’s plant wishes instead.

Farmers, forget all the weeds you’ve been weeding,
And think of, instead, all the wishes you’re seeding
By letting the dand’lions grow on your farm.

Then if fishes were wishes we’d scour the seas,
Seeking the goldfish to end all the pleas
For the wheat and the flour that we had stopped sowing
Because our main crop was wish-flower growing.

And, for the heck of it, here's another poem I finished recently. It was inspired by mascara, and it has a title.

Arachnophobia

Her eyes were like flies’ eyes,
How they shone back the light in five thousand colors
Like multi-faceted black-and-blue diamonds
Shuttered beneath butterfly eyebrows.

Her lips were silkworms as she
Pulled thread from her mouth
Full of maggots
To weave a skirt like a spider’s web.
 
The lies she lied were locusts,
Jumping out at me and scratching my skin with their
Grasshopper claws and lying eyes.

 Her hands were like spiders,
Spindly, five-legged carnivores
Attached to praying mantis arms,
Twitching across the sticky thread
Reeling between her silkworm lips.

 But as I think about it,
It was not her hands but her eyes that preyed
Arachnid-like on my face,
Hungry for my flies’ eyes eyes.

I Have a Confession to Make (Don't Worry, It's Not a Bad One).

I Write Poetry, Not Prose

I write poetry, not prose.
These days people think only “emos” write poems
About the sadness in their hearts and their slit wrists.
Well, I don’t wear dark makeup or black clothes,
I just write poetry,
Not prose.

I used to think that novel-writing was the thing for me,
But as the years passed I found solace in the arms of poetry.
I’ll leave trilogies and chapters to the Talbots, Monsons, and Angerhofers,
Whose names will invariably been seen on the first of 400 pages,
Spelled out in gold letters and given national acclaim.
But for me, I’d rather make audiences weep as I perform on the stage,
Spewing forth sad-girl-poetry and other things written in my fits of rage.

You ought to see the surprise when I perform with wild eyes,
Spewing lines about insanity, death, murder, and lies.
Most don’t expect such a sweet exterior to have such “rotten” insides.
I haven’t been locked up in the basement all my life,
And sometimes I, at the beginning of it, feel I’ve lived more than those at the end.
Through the words I’ve penned I’ve learned far more than most,
Because I write poetry,
Not prose.

Of course, this is not a full-truth. I wrote this as a shout-out to one of my friends from my creative writing class, who usually writes prose but is also a brilliant poet. His poem was titled "I Write Prose, Not Poetry."

Sorry for the less-than-wordy explanation. I'm a little frazzled, but I wanted to post something today. I had to watch my cousins, and they're kinda high-maintenance.

But I have a question to ask of you, my readers. What do you write? I was reminded by my English teacher that all writing is creative; even writing a car owner's manual is creative. So where do you fall? Are you a poet, a novel-writer, a blogger, an essayer, or a manual-writer?

Guest Writer: Evelyn L. (AKA EAL) and Her Odd Ramblings

Welcome once again to Illiterations' guest writer series! (I got a clap track after the last episode. If you listen really hard, you can hear it playing from where I live).

Today's feature is the ever-lovely, young, brilliant, amazing--ahem. Sorry. I could go on for ages about her, and I certainly don't want to bore anyone while I go on about this lovely lady. Of Assembling Imaginations, this is Evelyn L. (also known as EAL).

Not only does Evelyn write poetry; she also draws! (It's freaky. We're, like, twins or something...) I am an avid follower of her blog, not only because of her poetry, but also because I keep hoping to catch a glimpse of her mysterious Utopia Project. All I know (so far) is that it involves Europe, fighting, magic, and three years' worth of writing. Naturally, I'm a little curious.

I was also amazed to discover that she's even younger than I am! Just goes to show that talent and good writing can come from anywhere. c:

About herself, Evelyn says:

EAL, who was born in Illinois but raised in Norcal, will no longer be speaking about herself in third person.  I draw and play instruments, but writing is my main method of being creative.  Currently, I’m fighting my way through revisions of my finished story Utopia Project, with some short stories, poems, and possible longer works on the side.  I’m inspired by a lot of things: namely, books, landscapes, architecture, the ocean, and the odd ramblings of my brain.

So, without further ado, here is an odd rambling from the brain of Evelyn L.!

Blue-Eyes
Your eyes are stars, supernovae
But like black holes they pull me in

And implosions happen when I see you
Which is good because explosions

Are messy like finger-paint
And if I were five

I would choose my bluest crayon
To draw your eyes

Except they would be too round
And I would think of Neptune

Discovered by calculations
Existing as speculation before being found

A Roman god, a knockoff Poseidon
But that just isn’t you

Tell me what you mean
Tell me who you are

And, actually, I don’t even know
What kind of blue your eyes are

Blue like ocean under sun or
Blue like blood under skin

Because I keep forgetting
Even when I remember to look

For the black hole swallows even light
And under those bright supernovae

Color doesn’t really matter
Does it, blue-eyes?

This is Renee Montero from my plotless story which currently has the working title GW.  She's a little bit evil.

Like what you've seen? Read more at assemblingimaginations.blogspot.com!

Do you compose poetry, write prose, make art, or take photographs? Then you deserve to be recognized! Find out how!

Oh Lookhence, an Update!

Sorry for such a boring week, you guys. :P I had the best of intentions, but those often fail in the face of DUNDUNDUNAPATHY.

Here's what happened. Yes, this is IN OTHER NEWSSSS!!!

Tuesday: I went to my great-grandpa's funeral. I didn't cry until the military honor guard played taps. My grandpa served in the infantry reconstructing Japan in WWII, so he got a military funeral, which was incredibly moving and utterly AWESOME. Yes, I cried a single glistening tear at the sound of the trump (the guy was a pretty good trumpet player). Then we had our family luncheon at Wendy's and went home, because we were all wearing black and it was 94 degrees outside.

As we were getting in the car to leave the graveside service, my dad came up with a poem:

My grandpa died.
I cried a single glistening tear. 

He likes to take my poetry and turn it into a two-line poem that says basically the same thing as the full-length poem. Show-off...
So I decided to one-up him:

My grandpa died.
I cried. 

Wednesday: I had my job interview for that paid graphic design internship. I was pretty stressed out, I must admit, but I think my chances are pretty good. I'm being optimistic.

Thursday: My aunt is moving, so my sister and I drove out to help her pack boxes and such. Fun fun fun...

Friday: First, the library, then a 3-hour pool party where I let a bunch of 9-year-old boys beat me up. My shoulders are so sunburned it's not even funny, but I'm not complaining. It was a fun party!

So today, since I have so much less going on, I am finally going to put up a poem.

ALSO: For those of you who are wondering about the poetry contest, I'm going to hold off until I have more interested people. So... if you want a poetry contest, direct your poetic friends to my blog! (Yes indeed, that was indeed a shameless plug for followers).

When I end up having a poetry contest, the theme will be "Personal Histories: Your Life in Poetry." That is, unless I change it.

Today's poem is a reworked piece that EAL suggested I write. The original piece can be found here, and the style is inspired by Kevin Routh's poetry. I thought I might try writing a poem that's a little bit more... well, streamlined, I guess you could say. Less wordy.
 

Lifeblood

This
Is
My
Life
Blood
You’ve splashed ‘cross the floor,
It pools there in droplets
For us to adore.

This
Is
My
Life
Blood
I’ve splashed ‘round in ink,
I leave it to tell you
What it is I think.

Guest Writer: A Glimpse into the Soul of Kevin Routh

Welcome, welcome everyone, to Illiterations' very first guest writer! (If I had a clapping track, I'd play it here. You can applaud now as you read this if you feel so inclined).

Today's feature is the brilliant Kevin Routh, a father of 3 who lives outside of St. Louis, Missouri. He has been writing poetry for many years and has only recently begun to share his writings with others through his blog, Shards: The Poetry of Kevin Routh.

I was personally very impressed with all or Mr. Routh's poetry, as well as with his prose. Each piece is completely different, yet all have the same, unique style. My personal favorites are "Connor" and "Plastic People." These two poems, as well as the two featured here, reflect a critical observer of society, a bit of a jokester, and a loving man and father.

About his poetry, Kevin says:

"I strive to connect to human emotions and the human condition through my poetry. Some of my poems are happy, some angry and some are sad - but all of them are honest. They are all small glimpses into my soul."

Without further ado, I present to you "Memories" and "Poetry Is..." (and commentary on aforementioned poems) by Kevin Routh.

This is probably the hardest poem I ever wrote. I’m never ever quite sure what’s going to happen when I go back through my life and start poking and prodding at old scars. Even though it was painful, I really like how this piece turned out.

Memories 

little boy
5 or 6 maybe
trust me
(he whispers)
i love you
(he lies)
the house is filthy and dark
(like him)
little boy
concentrates on a cockroach
skittering back and forth across the floor
(instead of the pain)
the rancid breath
(cigarettes and gum disease)
the violence
followed by tears
(and apologies)
(and threats)
little boy
closing memories
(and shame)
behind locked doors

I took a literature class once and the professor, a tall, lanky (stork-like) fellow, asked us to write an essay defining poetry. Instead of the essay, I wrote this poem. I never really was one for following directions.

Poetry Is…

Poetry is?
The Stork asks,
his beady eyes darting to
and fro.
omigod!
I do not know –
I DO NOT KNOW!

He stands there on one leg asking me
to define the indefinable.
What is Poetry?
Some sort of verse?
Must it rhyme? Must it flow?
omigod… I don’t know!

The stork paces,
waiting for my answer,
waiting for me to speak.
If I don’t tell him,
he will gouge my eyes with his beak.
I hear the tick of the clock:
Poetry is… Poetry is… Poetry is…

I bet Whitman could have told him,
even Tennyson, Keats or Thoreau…
But as for me,
I do not know.
I do not know.

 Like what you've read? Read more at kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com!

Do you compose poetry, write prose, make art, or take photos? Then you deserve to be recognized! Find out how!

The Archives: Words, Words, Words...

IN OTHER NEWS: I hate college. Hate hate hate it. I haven't even graduated high school yet and I'm already stressed out, not to mention my parents are being stupidheads and not telling me anything except things I don't want to hear. I'm freaking stressed. I might even swear (ooooooooo).

Also in other news: I saw my boyfriend today while on a campus tour (what are the odds, right?). It was amazing to see him again, but it made me kind of sad because he's so lonely. Crap, it makes me feel like a bad friend. So I told him I'd call, which I will. 8D Actually I just barely texted him.

Me: Hey! :) It was so good to see you today! I've really missed you.
Him: I am doing calculus right now
Me (to myself): ... Okay, we'll talk later, then, I guess?

He's kind of funny like that, but those are his weird little quirks I like so much. Plus, he said calculus is stressing him out, so I can see why he might not want to chat.

Also also, if all you poets out there haven't sent an email to get featured, you're foolheads! I've started targeting people, so unless you want me to hunt you down like a sniper-man, you'd better look at this and send in some stuff. So there.

Today's poem is about 114 days old according to my Google Docs thingy. A few people have asked about my funny little habit of combining words; well, this is where it started. In my creative writing class we each are in charge of doing a writing activity once every other week or so. One of those activities involved using a list of 20 or 25 odd words and either writing a story or a poem incorporating 12 or more of them. I used them all. I'm a bit of a show-off, I guess you could say.

Words

I’ll use big words to sound as though I know something,
And I might sound a little dumbgauche,
But I need someone to hearlisten.
I need someone to stopallay,
My exigency, because my heartsnare
Is pounding so hard and so fast that it will painburst,
And my teeth are clenched so tightclosed
That my masseter is about to breaksnap.
My lungs are fractious in the fumigating firesmoke,
As the trees slip away in mellifluous ashbreezes.

I might be blamed of clozapinepotism,
But it’s hard to absolve an ennead of misanthropic otherselves.
All I get is harshcruel
Fustigations as I don my dowdykanzu.

If you ask me, I think it is they who are censurable unrights,
Though it might not be axiomatic at firstlook.
I’ll just have to garner some boredennui,
But for now I’m donekaput.

Happy Father's Day

My dad is the single-most amazing man I know. I just wish I weren't such a feeble poet...

Daddy,

I’m not going to pen a poem like Miss Plath
About a daddy who wasn’t enough for her.
I’m not going to list lies about the times you beat me, Dad.
You never did.
I’ve learned it’s the mark of a poor poet to lie,
Because aside from the few spankings I earned,
The only times you touched me were to give me a hand.
 
I’m not going to scrawl screams of frustration,
How you weren’t there when I needed you most,
Because you were there.
 
No, I don’t want to be a poet with that last-resort muse,
Turning to fantasies of make-believe abuse.
I want to tell you about the times we spent talking about dust mites on our hikes,
Sitting with you for some advice,
A leg-up-on-life.
 
I’m writing to tell you that every time I said I hated you,
I really meant I love you;
That for every time you told me things I didn't want to hear,
I listened twice as hard the next time.
 
Dad, I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.
I’m taking baby steps towards a shaky independence,
Using your words as my crutch.
But I’ll use up all my monthly minutes on the phone,
Reminding you how much I love you,
Because I do.

Two Pictures and The Archives: Empty Space

I did it. I made illustrations for not one, but two poems, one of which you haven't read before. I've been bored, see. I had/have a youth religion camp going on yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and we had a lot of free time the past two days. Thank goodness I brought my sketchbook. Right now I'm at home on a little break before a barbecue and a movie and a dance party. We're watching Forever Strong, and if you haven't seen it, you're missing out. It's an incredible movie. For reals.

First thing, I have the line art for my illustration poem, Summer Blooms. I got quite a lot of attention at the camp, but I have to say, it wasn't the best thing to be drawing at a religion camp, especially at the early stages where the breasts and other private areas aren't covered yet. I put fake little undies on my drawings just for that reason. o////////o It's loosely inspired by this image.

Those things on the left are supposed to be garlic. And she's wearing spankies under that skirt, thankyouverymuch.

I don't have the guts or the time to color it yet, so I'm just going to leave it in the computer for a while, probably. I might do a few studies before I go for broke, and I'll probably do a pre-color with my graphics tablet. But all in all I'm very happy with how it came out.

Now, for the poem. I wrote this a few years ago on a whim, then edited it once or twice to improve the rhythm and rhyme scheme.

Empty Space

I am full of empty space
My body seems a solid place.
Yet my mind’s full of emptiness
The size of which I cannot guess.

When I look into my face,
It’s hard to see that empty space.
My hands so thin, my limbs so tall,
How is it I have space at all?

To some it seems like such a waste;
“Why don’t we use this empty space?”
Then science says without a doubt,
“We cannot fill the spaces out.”

It is a fact that I must face:
I am full of empty space
And science says, I do not doubt,
“We’ll never fill the spaces out.”

I am full of empty space
And fullness is a hopeless case.
The thought of this makes me feel small...

Am I nothing, after all?

I drew a picture for this poem, too (ignore her hands, please). This one's inspired by Evan Dahm's Bottle Woman, from the webcomic Order of Tales. 

The Archives: Stuff about Blood.

Once, I got a bloody nose in gym because someone hit me in the face with a volleyball. Then I ran to the bathroom and got a tissue. The next morning, I got a bloody nose again and was stuck in the bathroom at school for around an hour because it wouldn't stop bleeding. It was gross. The end.

True story.

This true story then elicited a poetic and prose-etic response, which the lovely Myself has requested I post. Well, I can't say "no" to something like that, can I? So first, here's some thinking, and then the poem, which is, appropriately, called "Bloody Nose," because I can't come up with anything better.

I think maybe people don't like the sight of blood because it's out-of-place. Blood belongs inside your body, and its presence anywhere else suggests that something has gone wrong, that you or someone else has been injured. It's something everyone has, and it's nothing to be afraid of. It's not gross or frightening; it just is.

If my writing style seems startlingly different, it would be because this was written in September of last year. I've revamped my style a lot since then.

A slap to the face,

And suddenly that which was mine comes forth,

A crimson tide,

A stain upon my flawless face;

A testament to my mortality

Falls like tears,

Like rain dripping on the ground,

My feet,

My clothes,

Marred by my imperfection.

Lawnmowing, Love, and Lilacs

Today was my last day of school before summer starts! It's about time, too. :P

Ah ha, another lawnmower poem. It's an inspirational thing, mowing the lawn, is it not? This poem's even about plants! Coincidence? I think not! I wrote this on Saturday and edited Sunday and Monday to make it the best it could be.

This is partly inspired by my boyfriend--yes, I said it: my boyfriend--who is a microbiology genius. Most the things he talks to me about go in one ear and out the other. He's working on curing cancer, and I think his team is close. Did I mention he's just about to graduate high school? Yes. And he's curing cancer.

Anyways, loosely inspired by him. He's very sweet, and he would never mistreat me in any way. The only similarity is the scientific-ness of this poem. What can I say? Relationships make for great poetry, even if it's a little exaggerated.

Are you in a relationship? Is it an... INSPIRING one? Do tell.

Summer Bloom

Suspend me, saint-like, from the ceiling,

Strung up beside garlic and spice.

I bet I'll look nice when you move from this shack to a lab,

And you can study me all you want, but I won't change.

It's strange how you said you wanted me,

Only to pluck me from my roots so I could die before your eyes.

But I'd rather be dried than condemned to formaldehyde,

Watching dandelions go to seed while you read medical journals

And observe my body decaying inside a jar.

I know where they are.

When their petals began to wilt, you pumped them full of preservatives,

Injected dyes so you wouldn't have to see them decompose,

A daisy;

A rose;

Locked in the dusty corners of your memory,

A sickening surprise for me to find as I search your mind,

Looking for the "Why's."

I only bloomed so you could tell me I was pretty,

And when you found me I told you I couldn't last forever.

You thought you were so clever,

Hanging me like Peter from the rafters,

Sealing letters, making charts,

Calling up forbidden arts.

And I know you're trying, but

I'm

still

dying,

And all your efforts just won't work.

By the time you find a cure to mortality,

I'll have gone to seed,

And I'll teach my posterity to laugh

At the silly charts and stupid graphs

You made to save your garden of hearts.

A summer flower made to bloom in spring,

I'll leave you to wonder if you did something

Wrong,

Because I can't bear to watch, with my dried-out eyes,

As the could-have-been seed

slowly

dies.

You'd Be Surprised Where You Get Inspired

You'd think mowing the lawn would inspire you to write about mowing the lawn, right? Nope. Not for me. Somehow mowing the lawn or walking to school stimulates my brain, I guess, because right after doing either one I have ideas for new stories or poems. I made up a joke the last time I walked to school. You wanna hear it? Of course you do.

What do you call a mob of brooms?

The mop-fia.

You're supposed to laugh now, just so you know.

Anyways, I was mowing the lawn on Saturday, contemplating stuff as always, when the lines for a poem came to mind. I'd already tried writing something with the same idea in mind, but it wasn't turning out quite right the way I was taking it. The title came about partly because of the poem's concept, and also because I was joking around with my sister and calling her names (we do that a lot, just to see who can come up with the best name). The first word out of my mouth was "Dummy." Isn't that a funny word? I had to use it somewhere.

Before I give you the poem, here's a question I'd like to know: What inspires you, and where (as in physical places) do you most often get inspiration?

Dummy

My ventriloquist moves my mouth to speak,

Though I swear it's not me talking.

My ventriloquist moves my limbs so weak,

But it's not me who's walking.

My ventriloquist makes my eyes to weep,

Though I swear it's not me crying.

My ventriloquist lays me down to sleep,

And now it's me who's dying.

Official Posting Schedule and a Poem That Is Apparently Worth Publishing

Because of some stuff and various other reasons, I will make blog posts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, except when I don't.

Aren't you glad to have something consistent in your life, except when I'm not consistent?

I know I am.

EDIT as of Saturday, 28 May, 2011: I'll probably post on Saturdays as well. Yay! :D

Today's poem is an interesting piece to be certain. An assignment in creative writing was to hold hands with a person we didn't know very well from the class and stare into their eyes for five minutes. We weren't to speak, look away, or let go of each other until the five minutes were up. Then we had to write a poem or prose piece about our experience.

I chose to "commune" with Ashley, a quiet girl (but an excellent writer). It felt odd at first, but eventually it became more comfortable and I was able to just think: what is she thinking about? What lies behind her eyes? And what is she seeing in me?

I sent in the resulting poem to a poetry contest a few months ago, and it is being published in a who's who sort of book. I'm not about to shell out $26 for a book with my name in it. The whole reason I entered was to get extra credit, anyways. But I'm in the running to win an actual prize, so I'm not complaining.

This is "Hazel."

Is it all right if we share?
Let’s take turns and chip away at the Walls we’ve built
Until we have nothing but ourselves,
But everything at once.

I never asked for anything before, so
Do you mind if I ask,
Where is your direction?

(Are you wandering like I do? Are you lost as I am?)

Let us be lost together
So someone can hold me through coming Disaster.

You’ve shown me flecks of gold, copper, bronze,
Rich soil rings around my reflection.
Let’s plant a garden in your eyes
And dandelions to choke out the Worry seeds.

Did you see my Ocean?

(It laps against my shivering soul)

Did you see the Embers?

(I Burned my heart for the sake of winter heat)

Did you see the Gardens rent with longing?
(Once there were forests filled with flames)

Please, come be lost with me. I feel so c o l d.

The Archives: Disgusting Sappy Love Poetry

I have to post these before I forget.

(sigh) And this is the embarrassing part of being a writer: love poetry.

Once upon a time I was not in love with boys, and then suddenly I was. It was kind of scary. I had this weird crush for some reason on this kid (he shall remain unnamed...), and I had this... shrine-like collection of things I made about him. Namely, two comic strips, a bunch of pictures, and two poems.

The only thing I can share without dying of embarrassment is the poetry.

And you know, the funny thing is that now I look back and can hardly believe I liked him. He was kind of... icky.

Anyways, these are two nursery-rhyme-type love poems of disgusting sickly sweetness. The first one is from me to him, and the second from him to me. And... I wrote them both. Can I say desperate?

Dear Moon,
You are the moon, and I'm just a star,
You don't know me, but I know who you are.
I wish to give you my deepest love,
For now I will simply gaze from above.
But you are the moon, and I'm just a star,
And all I can do is watch from afar.
I'm not near as pretty as others, it's true,
But someday I'll shine just as brightly as you.

Love,
A Star

Dear Star,

I am the moon, and you are a star,

You don't think I see, but I know who you are.

I know you are looking at me from up there,

Did you really think that I just didn't care?

I love you, I love you, I love you, my dear,

And with me around you have no need to fear.

You are one of many, but just watch and see,

You are the star who most matters to me

.I promise to cherish and to hold you tight,

Together our glory will surpass the night.

I love you, I love you, a thousand times more,

The heavens will sing with our ev'ning amor.

Come closer, my darling, my beautiful friend,

Come dance with me, and our joy will not end.

Love,

The Moon

It's Been A While...

Well, well, well...

Look what the cat dragged in, eh?

It's me!

I'm still here. Working on lots of things, all of which are not yet finished, but still writing. Yes indeed.

I feel bad for not posting in such a long time (12 days, le gasp), especially since I left all you loyal readers with such a horrible short story for that time (shudder).

So I made something up in the last three minutes, which is somewhat appropriate after my week-and-a-half period of silence. This is called "Soft-Spoken," which is a thing that I am not. I was looking through my journals for English class today, and over half of them were stamped with the purple cat. The purple cat represents my having shared my thoughts on the topic in front of the class, and qualifies me for extra credit. That's seven journals that I've shared. Most of my classmates have three. Actually, most have none, maybe one. What can I say? I love to talk, and I have a lot to say! So here it is.

Soft-Spoken

I think that perhaps I will speak less,

So that when I have something to say,

People will raptedly listen,

And my words will have power to sway.