timepiececlock: (Rashaka is my name)
I don't usually care for religious lit, poetry or otherwise. But I really love the imagery and intimacy of this poem.

Andrew Hudgins

Praying Drunk

Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.
Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks.
I ought to start with praise, but praise
comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you
about the woman, whom I taught, in bed,
this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form
keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes.
Do you? And after love, when I was hungry,
I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled,
Poof! You're a casserole! - and laughed so hard
she fell out of bed. Take care of her.

Next, confession - the dreary part. At night
deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.
They're like enormous rats on stilts except,
of course, they're beautiful. But why? What makes
them beautiful? I haven't shot one yet.
I might. When I was twelve I'd ride my bike
out to the dump and shoot the rats. It's hard
to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use
a hollow point and hit them solidly.
A leg is not enough. The rat won't pause.
Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back
into the trash, and I would feel a little bad
to kill something that wants to live
more savagely than I do, even if
it's just a rat. My garden's vanishing.
Perhaps I'll plant more beans, though that
might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.
Who knows?
I'm sorry for the times I've driven
home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.
Crested with mist it looked like a giant wave
about to break and sweep across the valley,
and in my loneliness and fear I've thought,
O let it come and wash the whole world clean.
Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair-
whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.

Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,
that nature stuff. I'm grateful for good health,
food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I've never had to do
without. I have confused myself. I'm glad
there's not a rattrap large enough for deer.
While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept
when I saw one elephant insert his trunk
into another's ass, pull out a lump,
and whip it back and forth impatiently
to free the goodies hidden in the lump.
I could have let it mean most anything,
but I was stunned again at just how little
we ask for in our lives. Don't look! Don't look!
Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling
schoolkids away. Line up, they called, Let's go
and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.
I laughed and got a dirty look. Dear Lord,
we lurch from metaphor to metaphor,
which is -let it be so- a form of praying.

I'm usually asleep by now -the time
for supplication. Requests. As if I'd stayed
up late and called the radio and asked
they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed.
I want a lot of money and a woman.
And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know-
a character like Popeye rubs it on
and disappears. Although you see right through him,
he's there. He chuckles, stumbles into things,
and smoke that's clearly visible escapes
from his invisible pipe. It make me think,
sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me
is the poor jerk who wanders out on air
and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees
eternity, and suddenly his shoes
no longer work on nothingness, and down
he goes. As I fall past, remember me.
timepiececlock: (Rashaka is my name)
My Digital Camera

The settings are defined by buttons I can't find,
and the Menu-thingy option has naught to do with Function.

The capital button D is like leaning close to see,
except it can't ever bear to show me both far and near.

If there's a secret talent to working out Light Balance
it saw my composition and fled from my decisions.

Gotta turn the whole thing Off between each and every shot,
since I spent half my power to Zoom in on a flower.

I think my camera hates me, and freezes just to bait me,
but hey, that desert blossom did turn out pretty awesome!
timepiececlock: (Ahiru & Fakir text)
Duplicated from everyone on my flist: When you see this, post your favorite poem in your journal.

by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)


Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Of all the famous American writers, I'd choose to have her silver tongue. I've already decided that if I ever write a book that's either A) a murder mystery, or B) a vampire novel, I will absolutely title it Among The Roaring Dead.
timepiececlock: (Origin of Love)
Rudyard Kipling

"Toomai of the Elephants"

I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain–
I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane:
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.

I will go out until the day, until the morning break–
Out to the wind’s untainted kiss, the water’s clean caress;
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!

~ anonymous

Jun. 3rd, 2008 02:27 pm
timepiececlock: (Ahiru & Fakir text)
Be wary, young sailor,
Of wind and high water.
The sea has a secret,
The sea has a daughter.
She'll swim along starboard,
And capture your heart.
With a flip of her tail-fin,
Underwater, depart.
timepiececlock: (Origin of Love)
I've been fascinated by the number three for a long time. It's not my favorite number (that'd be 12), but it's always held a bit of a mystique for me. I learned the rule of 3 and 5 when I first took art class, and it has lasted in my mind longer than most of the other things I learned in high school.

I love phrases that come in three words, I love lists of three, I note that the first essays they make you write in school have three body paragraphs, and there's three primary colors, and all great stories have three characters, even if the third character is just a place or an idea. The three main characters for ATLA, for example, are Aang, the Avatar, and Zuko. The three main characters of The X Files are Mulder, Scully, and the FBI. The three main characters of The Little Mermaid are Ariel, Ursula, and Eric.

Three nights of moonlight for werewolves to transform, three promises to seal it, 1-2-3-GO!, rock-paper-scissors, getting your steak done to well, medium, or rare.

Clovers have three leaves, I'll give you three guesses, three sirens, three fates, three warnings, three colors on the stop light, three medals to win at the Olympics, and the linguistic conjugation of good, better, best.

It's a great number to play with, and it holds a unique place in our culture, structurally and linguistically. After all, nobody ever wrote a song called called "Bizzare Love Square."
timepiececlock: (That bright imperious line)
In the world of fanfiction...

My post- 3x12 fanfic is starting to look like an actual tangible thing. I've got notes for 15 short chapters, kind of a serial collection of Zuko's interactions with various characters, some repeated obviously.

I took the snippet titles from a second list of 64 prompts that I once made for [livejournal.com profile] akavertigo as a supplement/sequel to the [livejournal.com profile] 64damn_prompts list. I actually made three lists in total, the second being my favorite I think. Obviously what I have so far represents only a fraction of the prompts; I don't intend to write a 64-part fic.

And now, a poem!

William Blake

The Clod and the Pebble

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.

So sang a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.
timepiececlock: (Ahiru & Fakir text)
Eliza Brock

Nantucket Girl's Song

Then I'll haste to wed a sailor, and send him off to sea,
For a life of independence, is the pleasant life for me.
But every now and then I shall like to see his face,
For it always seems to me to beam with manly grace,
With his brow so nobly open, and his dark and kindly eye,
Oh my heart beats fondly towards him whenever he is nigh.
But when he says "Goodbye my love, I'm off across the sea,"
First I cry for his departure, then laugh because I'm free.

Picked up my brother's copy of In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Wahleship Essex, and finding the first 20 pages to be well-written and interesting. I don't usually go in for non-fiction, but the cover caught my eye, and my brother was intending to lock it away in the attic anyway. I practically rescued it. It opens with general history of the island of Nantucket, MA---which I'd never heard about before---the whaling capital of the world for the 18 and 19th centuries.

I fell in love with this odd little verse, written by one of the local women to describe the 3-years-away, 3-months-home marriage cycle of whale hunters, and how the women of the community, in the absence of the men, adapted to the lifestyle of being the primary governing forces of the town.
timepiececlock: (Dragon lives forever-- not so little gir)
Here's a riddle I made up:

Always given, never earned,
follows after an unfortunate turn.
Of highest value, can't be bought,
trails behind the battles fought.

Winning Riddlers!
[livejournal.com profile] quirkyinla
[livejournal.com profile] little_fool

(I will add more as the correct answer is given, and screen the correct answers so people can keep guessing. I'll leave the wrong answers unscreened, though.)


Dec. 18th, 2007 04:27 am
timepiececlock: (That bright imperious line)
How do people without paid journals post icons? Seriously. I've had a paid journal for 2 years until last month, so I can't use my scrapbook anymore. I made some spiffy new icons, but don't have room to put them in my own icon queue.

Is there a website people use to link to gif and jpeg files? Is there a common one?

Anyway, check out the icon. This poem rocks. Of course, it's not a shippy poem at ALL yet I put it with a mildly shippy icon... oh well, it works. I do think it fits in terms of mood (poem and the episode), and the caption "you will go faltering after that bright imperious line" is a prophecy for Zuko's life, and description of his personality, as sure as anything Aunt Wu might say.

I guess this is sort of a spoilery icon... but there are other spoilery icons out there, and mine doesn't really give anything away, and if you haven't seen the episode by now then you're not a respectable Avatar fan anyway.
timepiececlock: (Lola flash breathe)
I've decide to do a series of poem posts, alternating between my own poems and poems I love by famous writers.

The poem below was one I wrote March of last year for a lit poetry class in my senior year. I didn't get a very good mark for it, which I understand because I didn't put a lot of work into it-- I think I actually wrote it the morning before class.  Anyway, even if its not that great a poem, it is an honest look into my psyche and my strange personal habits in university life. The scene described below happened a lot during finals weeks.

"The Morning After Sleeplessness"

Sometimes I don't sleep at night
just to be stubborn. I can control time
and time, day, doesn't really begin again
unless you've rested some point in between.
Although it never quite works like that:
I've created hours from nothingness
but I still feel like I've lost time somewhere,
and I just have to wait for it to catch up.

Objects and feelings aren't unreal they're much too real.
I shiver every time the air changes and think
What time is it now? Is it 8 o'clock yet,
the hour when my roommates wake up and catch me?
Can I fake it-- do I want to fake it?
Yes, I've been sleeping, not reading, not watching tv,
not fucking up my body cycles.
A raised eyebrow is my reward-- I am not
entirely certain I'd buy it either.

Ninth hour hits and morning rituals are due. Most important
is the shower, the cave that wakes me up
but only after making me feel drunk.
I palm the tile wall as if I'd taken six shots
of something and hold myself
steady, straight, and stable,
because a cracked head is kind of scary
when you wrap your head around it.

Stepping out of the shower I'm awake, brighter and higher
than I've been in weeks. Still kind of drunk
from fatigue but not to worry,
the real fatigue won't hit me till early afternoon.
Right now I've got four or five hours
of total sensation to play with.

timepiececlock: (Bright Imperious Line - Zuko/Katara)
This is a poem I ran into ages ago, and its always reminded me of BTVS, particularly characters like Drusilla, Angelus, and Spike. I love the imagery of it, particularly the line "And you must go on breathing." The diction is stellar, and the meter and rhyme flow smoothly off the tongue. It's vivid and dark and I love it.

-Dorothy Parker-


The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.

Like January weather,
The years will bite and smart,
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart.

The pretty stuff you're made of
Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye.

You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes with brine.

You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head,
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead.
timepiececlock: (Doctor [Nine] smiles)
I wrote this poem in 2002, a sort of fanfiction thing, which I used to do quite a lot of in high school but hardly ever do anymore. This one is a strange, abstract thing that has very little in it that is strictly BTVS... it could be read as not having to do with the show at all. But in my mind, it's for Spike.

"moon and sun and something grey"

fancy me with something grey
or maybe just some black and red
with guns and nails and pointy eyes
yes grey’s the thing, i think
not too much black you see,
i’m not quite dark as that
maybe was, but isn’t now
though there’s a one or two who’ll swear
my hat is bloodied and brown,
not white at all
and they’re closer than i want you to know

but you, well look at you!
all cream and yellow and orange
like needles in my eyes
didn’t anyone tell you too much sun can be a bad thing?
must be the california in you
spoiled little ray-child,
all righteous with your glowy skin matching hair
and that damn white cover you can’t lose for a minute.
you must’ve been odd as a brat,

no think thinking caps for you, it’s
did you remember your justice cap today dear?
wear it golden proud
and strike down the unvaliant, the unright, the made ungood
you and your stupid sunlight are all the same
all big-eyed laughter but no sense of humor
irony goes over your head, in my un-asked opinion

me? i’m a moon person, not that it matters to you
you of the
light and bright and all that morning shininess,
of the
i’m so happy in the sun in love and warm and—

—as I was saying,
a moon person, really;
stars are pretty too
but they’re really only little suns, so they don’t count.
in moonlight i could be green or blue or violet
i could be just like one of yours
…and i guess i’d still be only darkly grey
but it’s a pleasant thought, n’est-ce pas?

if you’d come out at night and see,
a moonbeam makes everything grey
orange is grey
and brown is grey
and grey is grey still
and you’re much prettier where i can see you
for real

the moonlight on your hair like that
i say
is maybe worth more than days in the sun,
not that it matters to you.
timepiececlock: (Spuffy burning hands)
My all time favorite Buffy fanfic is descant descending, by macha.


Before the World, the Word.

But even before the Word, the First Slayer began in silence, and her power rose with her out of Darkness to exist only in the moment of Death.

And it came to pass that as one died, the next was called, throughout recorded time.

But when the earth beneath wakes hungry, then one will come, and die, and two shall rise, one light, one dark, and the dark one shall covet light, and the light one shall fall into darkness.

The Slayer that was will drown, and the Slayer that is will jump, and the Slayer that shall be will storm the gates of the underworld.

And then in the final days either the Slayer will shatter or she will shatter the walls between dimensions, depending on whom she chooses to stand with her, and in any event this will be known in the demon worlds as the end of days.

Above all fics I might point people too, I encourage people the strongest to read this one. It's so creative and thoroughly presented, it makes me drool.

Close runner-ups:
Spiegel Im Spiegel by Fallowdoe
Daemons Luminati (a.k.a. Radiance), by [livejournal.com profile] lordshiva

ee cummings

Sep. 8th, 2006 12:43 am
timepiececlock: (Ed - poison crazy lush)
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend: blow space to time)
-when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man

what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror; blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
-whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,
it's they shall cry hello to the spring

what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn't:blow death to was)
-all nothing's only our hugest home;
the most who die, the more we live
timepiececlock: (Shigure super genius)
The words "All the world--and time" were used in The Time Traveler's Wife, and I've been googling for like 10 minutes trying to find the origin of that quote. I think it was from a poem, somewhere. I know I've heard it.

So far, the most I could find was that it was the title of an old Star Trek episode. I know it's from something earlier than that.

EDIT: It helps if you get the quote right. :D What I should have been looking for was "world enough, and time", which is in the first line of Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress":

Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
timepiececlock: (Hayame orange & the sea)
Hello darkness my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping.
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone,
Narrow streets of cobblestone.
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never shared.
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools" said I, "You do not know,
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls."
And whisper'd in the sounds of silence.

I've always looked back on this song and agreed that it is an excellent example of the lesson she was trying to convey: that every word in a poetic work should serve the whole. What I love about this song is not just the slightly creepy cultish theme or the pessimistic ideas, or even the way it's played. What I love is that you can pick out almost any noun or verb or adverb in the song and easily trace how it relates to the whole. The themes of sound, silence, and music are in every aspect of the song/poem--- not just what the little "story" is saying, but in each word chosen for its power and place. Figurative language, say hello.
timepiececlock: (Tetris hates me.)
This afternoon I had my two concrete poems workshopped in class. With regards to the computer poem, someone suggested (when asked by the teacher to search for a deeper meaning) that maybe it was about computer addiction--- addiction to not just videos games but websites, chatting, everything online.

It is not a poem about computer addiction. (it's about how much my computer hates me.)

However, I think I was blushing like a tomato and probably sinking into my chair because, by weird coincidence, yes I am addicted to my computer...since you asked.

Freudian, that's what it was.

I turned in another poem today, written in a rush before class:

Student Is As Student Does

We walk desk to door, door to car.
We carry our tomes on our backs and sometimes our hips
Are weighted with our fortunes and our lessons
So that we can’t quite walk straight anymore.
We speak and slither out of speaking
When the situation calls
We beg for the make-up test and lord our coups over everyone
Who couldn’t manage the same.
It happens at times that we notice
That here is a teacher who preaches profit
And that the courtyard keeps a man who shouts the Bible.
We read Freud, did he?
But careful—don’t assume, assumptions are
A child’s trick, no good in the real world
Where we won’t be students, we’ll be Citizens.
We’ll be a little taller and a little harder.
As the pupil we forget, so busy with our learning,
That education of youth is a place, a time, and an artifice,
Where no matter how fast we run—
From desk to door, from door to stair,
From bell to bell and pen to tassel—
We’re sleepwalking.


I showed it to my roommate and she said it was her favorite of mine so far, and that everthing captures exactly how she feels...except the last line which she hates and doesn't connect to. I'll have to think about that.
timepiececlock: (SC across the universe)
For our first project in my ceramics class we're doing pinch-pots with black underglaze, which we are then carving through for white recessed area. The Prof urged us to try to incorporate some kind of historical or cultural "narrative" in our carving designs, from images to text . I dunno what the hell that means, but he suggested text, so I'm going for poetry.

On the outside of the bowl, in the bottom/apex, I have three rabbits in a triangle/circle around a cresent moon. And around the rabbits I have a large circular sun. Then from the rays of the sun to the edge of the bowl I have text. Here's what it will read when finished:




Of course, because it goes in a circle, the "order" depends on which side is facing upward first.

Because carving the interior just sounds like too much work at the point, I decided to leave it black and just include this, along the inside rim:


I'm on a poetry kick, if you haven't noticed. :) The first stanza's from E. E. Cummings's "anyone lived in a pretty how town". The next is from the second stanza of John Donne's "Song". The third is Cummings again, "what if a much of a which of a wind". The last line is part of the final line of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Elliot.

I was really going for a nature/season/stars/magic/philosophy thing, and the end result is pretty good I think. All I have to do before I finish is carve the second stanza and do touch-up with the underglaze paint (like where I messed up on letter terribly.) Then it's glazed and sent into the kiln!


timepiececlock: (Default)

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