Why must I rhyme?

Another lost writing from the hawk_iris blog.  This time, it’s poetry…

 

What is my rhyme? I smile and say
That the answer may come, but not today.
Only elusive tomorrow reveals
The truth of the matter that to mind appeals.
Why must I rhyme? Syllables, lines straight,
And words sublime to seal my fate.

Trying, striving, working for
The work that is always in store.
Hoping, praying, loving, waiting,
Fixing, searching, sometimes hating,
Writing. Here our paths must part,
My exploration of my art
Will lead me down other paths and then,
Inspired, perhaps I’ll write again.

 

It’s not bad, I guess, but I can see why it was lost.  Even now it feels self-congratulatory and off.  But then, it has taken some “exploration of my art” to get to the point where I can say that.

A face shot with red

One of my odder attempts at poetry, experimenting with run-ons.

sacrifices

Mayan temples sacrificed women to the deeps

for continued survival

a man has fallen and saws off his own arm,

gritting teeth and bearing the pain,

her pregnancy leaves her clutching hands,

her face shot with red

flames fanned by men calling her a witch,

a bitch for doing this,

inciting men to riot or

peacefully sitting down to dreams of rights

now floating in puddles of soft drinks upended over heads,

a baptism for eventual rebirth.

Praying between the lines (prayer during aposiopeses)

So far my “do something creative everyday” resolution has worked well.  Unfortunately, most of that creativity has gone into drawing, not writing, and I have to be logged in to one of my parents’ computers in order to use a scanner.  Artwork posting should resume shortly.

***

Praying Between the Lines

a prayer during aposiopeses

O patron saint of words gone wrong

who rose above a broken song,

you spent your first life walking free

among land mines you could not see;

only later did you become aware

as a lover’s lies left you there

among the poplars and children’s swings

to recall inflections’ subtle stings.

 

Your name is nigh forgotten now,

so I address the holy Thou

and pray a blessing that I might

not be betrayed by my own sight,

nor over-guess what words imply,

mistaking speech for succubi.

And…

            if words should martyr me again…

restore my muted heart.

                                                Amen.

The zen of pixel art

Been a long time absent, I know. Working on NaNo done took its toll, and I’ve spent an incredible amount of time reading webcomic archives and whatnot to kill off brain cells. Starting tomorrow, though, my sisters will be back in school and I plan to spend that time working on creative projects – finishing “Strength of the Fallen,” redesigning characters for “Cathy Queen of Evil,” playing with brush pen inking, and learning Inform. Blog updates will resume on a semi-regular basis (Tues, Thurs., Sun.).

***

the zen of pixel art

there’s meditation

in the painstaking placement

of each lone pixel,

 

forming a greater

existence. there’s an acute

concentration in

 

seeing life at four

hundred percent focus to

only later find

 

the masterpiece wrought

through diligence. and yet, there

is profound relief

in using the paint fill tool. 

Regarding door posters & symbolism

I should have saved Anne’s sprite for today. Then I could just write a paragraph about how I want to finish the door signs this weekend and call it a night. Eh. Here’s a poem:

my hands hesitate on the keyboard

due to the plain and simple fact

that i am bored.

there, what do you make of that?

will you read into it?

will you try to organize my mind

like those poems writ

and copied, four-of-a-kind,

theme to theme, by narrator’s voice?

i am no poem.

that is my choice.

i was mad thinking i could show ‘em,

that i could pray in the Analysis Shrine

after a long trip in foreign lands

where the symbolic sun don’t shine.

i suppose i converted. looking at these hands,

you could tell.

there are no scars

where poems struggled against that fell

and murd’rous urge to extinguish stars.

I like the last five lines. A lot. I suppose the entire poem requires some context: I wrote this in “Writer’s Block Freewrites,” a Word document set aside especially for whining about writer’s block, or, more often than not, homework that I don’t want to do. Poetry responses fell into that category – I was asked to pick apart the week’s poem and read its entrails for symbolism. After having Mr. Scotese for a teacher, I’d lost my taste for that sort of activity, and this poem was the result of the inevitable clash of analysis styles.

All-nighters make me nerdier (Discrete Math warning)

I get to see Josh again tomorrow! I am so happy, I’m pulling an all-nighter to get my homework out of the way. Well, okay, so there’s something wrong with that proposition. A truth table would prove it correct, though:

Assuming the following variables:

J means “I get to see Josh”

H means “I am happy”

N means “I pull an all-nighter”

J ^ H -> N (“If I get to see Josh and I am happy, then I pull an all-nighter.”)

J     H     N     J^H     J^H->N

T    T     T        T             T

T    T     F        T             F

T    F     T        F             T

T    F     F        F             T

F    T     T        F             T

F    T     F        F             T

F    F     T        F             T

F    F     F        F             T

As my impromptu truth table clearly shows, the only case that would prove my statement wrong is if I see Josh, am happy, and don’t pull an all-nighter.

But the truth table doesn’t understand that I am pulling an all-nighter for reasons besides seeing Josh. And I can easily say that here, in non-mathematical language: I’m pulling an all-nighter because I am stupid when it comes to managing time. And because I will not wake up easily enough to complete my Poetry and Gender/Technology homework before 8 AM today. ‘Nuff said.

Finally got caught up on my poetry journal entries last night. Let’s post a couple entries, shall we?

There are woodchips underfoot and then

there are not, as we eschew steps

and land on pavement,

faces flushed,

arms outstretched,

still running.

Inside the little pink house on the other side

of the lot, children

slammed plastic shutters

and spat barbs from the cracks

at our approach.

We turned, loped uneasily over

the faded four-square boxes.

The steel cage of the monkey bars never

looked so inviting.

***

We are witnesses to

the

explosion

expansion

squeeze

The waterway now moves

ready for use

to pay back

poverty

since

control

died

***

Sometimes when the wind blows softly over cool, manicured grass, the strands of hair tucked carefully behind my ear rise up to dance sinuously in joy as I walk more freely, pretending to be Medusa.

Why Kris Straub is a sexy man, and other subjects

My cold cleared up yesterday afternoon, and I found myself once more feeling great happiness and optimism for my coming classes and homework.

And then I went and added six very long webcomic archives to my list of Webcomics to Go Through, which darkened things a bit. I simply don’t have time to go through archives right now. I’m chipping away at “Irregular Webcomic” and rereading a few pages of “Universal Voyage” every couple days, but I could be at that for months. Seriously. It took me a month to read the entirety of “Schlock Mercenary,” and it would have been longer if the school year hadn’t ended, leaving me with a plethora of free time.

This may sound like the whining of a webcomics addict, and maybe it is. But I still read a good handful a day, which fulfills any craving I might have. What is important is that my time is being used differently, in a way that seriously undermines how much I devote myself to reading or rereading webcomic archives. Now, I have Facebook to keep up on, and books to read (right now I’m working through “V for Vendetta”). My roommates like to watch anime and play video games, and I join them a lot. So when I say that I added over 10,000 comics to my Webcomics to Read list, is it any wonder that my heart sank a little?

***

One more item on webcomics and I’ll stop, I promise. Here: Kristopher Straub has started a crossover in his daily webcomic “Starslip Crisis.” The crossover is called “The Alterverse War,” and includes the spaceships (and crews!) of many a Sci-Fi webcomic. Straub had 29 entries, and of the ships that appeared on page three, I knew at least 5. A few ships are from comics I haven’t read yet, but are on my list (another reason for my sinking heart). So no matter what happens in the Alterverse storyline, I will probably remain very interested.

It is worth noting that I really love Kristopher Straub. Among those I idolize, he is right up there with Neil Gaiman, vying for number 1. He kicked ass with “Checkerboard Nightmare” and is currently creating wonderfully funny, cute, and touching storylines with “Starslip Crisis.” And he’s hot. Especially when he’s choking to death. The only thing that upset me about him was that he pretty much stopped updating his blog at Halfpixel. But the crossover! I love crossovers! He’s redeemed himself.

***

Finally, a poem I wrote last year during an empty tutoring session for the Writing Workshop. I’d forgotten to bring extra paper, so I wrote it on the back of my math homework. My Calculus teacher liked it. I do too.

 

My Dream Library

If I could have a dollar for every other thought,

I’d build myself a library with my own wages bought.

I’d paint the walls with sunshine, with joy splattered here and there.

Every room would smell of flowers and there’d be magic in the air.

I’d import darker floors to remind me of my fears –

Fine, crystallized disasters mined from the hardest years.

There would be no windows but there’d still be lots of light –

A million phosphorous-emitting fishes to confuse the day with night.

As for the books themselves – it would be hard to stem my pride,

For their covers would match the radiance of the words hidden inside.

But once a book was opened it would be like an open door,

And I’d leave behind this library to return nevermore.

Linoleum scars

I don’t have much for you today. I’ve posted nearly everything old that I planned to, and the newer stuff still isn’t ready. When I start writing “Areopagus” again I may not have anything except doodles. And nobody wants to see doodles. Except maybe my sisters. Maybe.

I’ll be going back to Drake soon, after five days in Paris with my family. I’m a little worried about being out of the country – I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat in that I prefer routine and order to new experiences. That’s changing, but the fear is deep-seated and probably won’t completely vanish anytime soon. Still, it’s good that I’m trying, right?

Here’s a short poem I wrote for a Xanga pal of mine. We never met, but I felt an enormous amount of empathy for some of the hardships she went through. It also nicely sums up my thoughts on religion.

“Prayer for Penglossian_Penguin”

i’m not deeply religious but

some people make me say,

“O God, if you’re out there,

please check on them this day.”

and when he does not answer back

i don’t beg, moan or stew

for i believe somewhere he is

busy watching over you.

broken girl (Firebird)

see the broken, broken girl

her dark eyes dead, her mind awhirl

see her stand upon a line

‘tween what is real and what is fine

 

the earth will hold us strong as steel

once we have danced a final reel

water caresses then lets us go

fleeing fast, whispering woe

but fire – fire! is what you need

you broken girl, you dark-eyed queen

smile and court the dead of night

you are alive! and you are light!

 

it’s dark, but broken girl walks alone

eyes cast down, heart set in stone

when suddenly she finds her feet

drawn by music down the street

 

the earth spits out its melody

that shakes us without sympathy

and water’s melancholy tune

changes at command of moon

but fire moves within you now

my broken girl of furrowed brow

an ember stirs within your soul

as you walk toward an uncertain goal

 

broken girl comes upon a stage

she’s choked with doubt beyond her age

the people dance – their shadows sway

the hungry music turns her way

 

the earth demands to lead the dance

and punishes our impudence

water won’t be held at all

we’re left glass droplets at the ball

but fire moves within their hips

touch, and burn your fingertips

my broken girl is set aflame

though no one here recalls her name

 

burning girl moves through the crowd

swept by rhythms far too loud

she wonders why no one took the chance

to help her lose herself in dance

 

the earth cares only for the beat

stepping forward to retreat

and still the water cries, lonely,

“won’t anybody dance with me?”

but fire consumes you through and through

your heart of stone cracks clean in two

but what was broken is welded now

and the ashen soil will better plow

 

burning girl can hear her heart

beneath the drums a stage apart

and the light that is the singer’s voice

shows her that she has a choice

 

the earth will hold us strong as steel

once we have danced a final reel

water caresses then lets us go

fleeing fast, whispering woe

but firebird rises through the air

the dancing people stop and stare

she moves with grace of love-lit flame

to a joyful song that needs no name.

***

I’ve written very few actual poems that I’m fond of, but this is definitely one of them. At the Welcome Weekend for incoming freshmen, my friend Holly led me and a reluctant Tien to a stage where there was a band playing. We danced there until the music stopped. I felt this incredible sense of freedom – so this was what it’s like to be on my own! No one to laugh at my dancing, just me, my soon-to-be classmates, and the beat. The feeling was so strong that when I went home for Thanksgiving a few months later I could still recall the lightness in my bones and the insistent sound in my ears. It was so strong that I had no choice but to commit it to paper. And there it was! Not the whole feeling, but enough to keep the memory safe.

phoenix of a broken song

I’ll be posting old work for awhile – it’s not that I’m not working on newer things, but I feel it’d be nice to get some of my older works out of the way first. For today I present a collection of fragmented poems, little rhymes that get caught in my head but have no real purpose besides sounding pretty and/or mysterious.

i recognize my face there

but it isn’t my face

don’t look in mirrors now

feel out your own place