So remember that poem I wrote about animal rights or whatever a while ago? Remember how I was asked to write it for a website? Yeah, so I was asked to write another poem for this website. The prompt was "Dreams". Could you please be a little more vague? Anyways, I'm definitely learning something from this experience, which is that it is really difficult to write from prompts. Especially broad prompts. Anyways, since the topic was dreams, I decided to play around with some surrealism in my poem, since I've never really tried that before. Here is the result:
Dreams are for the dreamers
It is possible that in a day
Or in a week
There will be a dreamer in me
The cityscape is melting
Into a round puddle of light
That reflects off its surface
The horizons of three worlds
It is possible
That in a day
Or in a year or a few years
There will be a dreamer in you
Diamond rise, diamond fall
In a kingdom where diamonds rule
Queens of hearts are meaningless
They sit in the corners of courts
With scepters crafted of fool’s gold
It is possible that in a day
Or in a hour
Or in this very moment
There will be a dreamer in me
I'm not sure how much I liked this poem, but my mother seemed to like it a lot. I think the parts I like are the repetitive "chorus", if you will, and the verse about diamonds/cards. Let me know what you think...
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Potential?
Okay fine. So I wrote a song. I wasn't going to post it, but now I will, because I have nothing else to post, and I'm a total comment whore. So kill me. Anyways, hopefully this song will evolve into having a tune as well as lyrics, but right now it only has lyrics. Like every other song I've ever written. Woohoo. So, I'm hoping that once this has a tune, the FAIL can use it, because we really need an original song. Without further ado...
She’s walking in front of me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s shimmering now
Shimmering and reflecting the light
Of my flashlight
My flashlight shines in the sun
They die now
They’re dying and rotting and sweating
Sweating and swelling in the sun
This is what the world is for
Shimmering and walking
And swelling and smelling
This is the world now, in the sun
She’s slipping away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s vanishing now
Shimmering and vanishing
In the light of the sun
They’re falling now
Falling on their arms and legs
Breaking and falling
Falling in the sun
This is what the world is for
Shimmering and vanishing
And breaking and falling
This is the world now, in the sun
She’s running away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s floating now
Floating and sweeping away
The grins of her enemies
Her enemies die now, in the sun
In the sun, her enemies die
Sweating and swelling and dying
All in the sun
This is what the world is for
This is what the world is for
Running and floating
Sweating and swelling
Falling and dying
All in the sun
Yeah, so don't ask me what this song means. I don't know. It just exists. Anyways, I also realized that the picture I put as my profile pic on this blog looks really warped here, even though it doesn't anywhere else. I don't know what's going on there. Alright, I'm peacing out now. Bye.
She’s walking in front of me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s shimmering now
Shimmering and reflecting the light
Of my flashlight
My flashlight shines in the sun
They die now
They’re dying and rotting and sweating
Sweating and swelling in the sun
This is what the world is for
Shimmering and walking
And swelling and smelling
This is the world now, in the sun
She’s slipping away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s vanishing now
Shimmering and vanishing
In the light of the sun
They’re falling now
Falling on their arms and legs
Breaking and falling
Falling in the sun
This is what the world is for
Shimmering and vanishing
And breaking and falling
This is the world now, in the sun
She’s running away from me
She’s wearing a scarf
A red, red scarf in the sun
It’s floating now
Floating and sweeping away
The grins of her enemies
Her enemies die now, in the sun
In the sun, her enemies die
Sweating and swelling and dying
All in the sun
This is what the world is for
This is what the world is for
Running and floating
Sweating and swelling
Falling and dying
All in the sun
Yeah, so don't ask me what this song means. I don't know. It just exists. Anyways, I also realized that the picture I put as my profile pic on this blog looks really warped here, even though it doesn't anywhere else. I don't know what's going on there. Alright, I'm peacing out now. Bye.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Mediocrity
I have an unending admiration for poets who can avoid cliches at all costs. I think the problem with me is that I have only a few topics to write about, never having suffered much in life. But here is an example of a poet who has taken a topic that is so cliche and that every poet has written about at least once, and has incorporated it into her poem in a completely original and profound way. In her poem, "Wanting to Die", Anne Sexton describes suicide, a completely overused topic, in a way that really made me think about it. She says:
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
I'm going to take a risk here and assume that all of you who read this blog either already know this about me, or don't care, but as someone who has in the past struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts, I can relate to Anne Sexton so much here. She described beautifully the exact struggle that people who are contemplating suicide go through. It's never about why, it's about how, where, when. But I could never have described this feeling in such an achingly simple way that causes the reader to have a brief glimpse into Sexton's manic-depressive mind. In case you don't know, she did commit suicide a few years later. So obviously it does help that these were actually her thoughts.
But here is another example on the same topic. Sylvia Plath (who incidentally also committed suicide, soon after writing the following poem) wrote a poem called Lady Lazarus. There isn't a particular line that strikes me, it's more the whole poem. You can read it here:
http://www.palace.net/~llama/poetry/ladylaz
It may help to know when reading this poem that she wrote this before her third (successful) attempt at suicide, so that is what she is referring to with the numbers in the poem.
Anyways, I love the way that she uses rythm (sp?) in this poem to lull the reader into a kind of nursery-rhyme like feeling, even though the meaning of the poem is actually quite disturbing. Again, I love the simplicity and complexity of this poem. The meaning is hidden behind complex metaphors, but the poem is not flowery or pretentious.
I think that's really the key to being a successful poet, and it's what I haven't learned yet: how to truly write about the self, but at the same time make it about someone else, and how to avoid cliches like the plague. As much as I try, I can't help falling between the cracks of those dreaded cliches sometimes. I suppose it's because I don't have so much life experience, so I try to draw upon other people's. Probably has something to do with my age, but I'm too stubborn to admit it.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
I'm going to take a risk here and assume that all of you who read this blog either already know this about me, or don't care, but as someone who has in the past struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts, I can relate to Anne Sexton so much here. She described beautifully the exact struggle that people who are contemplating suicide go through. It's never about why, it's about how, where, when. But I could never have described this feeling in such an achingly simple way that causes the reader to have a brief glimpse into Sexton's manic-depressive mind. In case you don't know, she did commit suicide a few years later. So obviously it does help that these were actually her thoughts.
But here is another example on the same topic. Sylvia Plath (who incidentally also committed suicide, soon after writing the following poem) wrote a poem called Lady Lazarus. There isn't a particular line that strikes me, it's more the whole poem. You can read it here:
http://www.palace.net/~llama/poetry/ladylaz
It may help to know when reading this poem that she wrote this before her third (successful) attempt at suicide, so that is what she is referring to with the numbers in the poem.
Anyways, I love the way that she uses rythm (sp?) in this poem to lull the reader into a kind of nursery-rhyme like feeling, even though the meaning of the poem is actually quite disturbing. Again, I love the simplicity and complexity of this poem. The meaning is hidden behind complex metaphors, but the poem is not flowery or pretentious.
I think that's really the key to being a successful poet, and it's what I haven't learned yet: how to truly write about the self, but at the same time make it about someone else, and how to avoid cliches like the plague. As much as I try, I can't help falling between the cracks of those dreaded cliches sometimes. I suppose it's because I don't have so much life experience, so I try to draw upon other people's. Probably has something to do with my age, but I'm too stubborn to admit it.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Monologue
So I wrote a monologue. Not for fun, but for English, because I no longer have time to write for fun. Yes, it's a sad world we live in. Or I live in. Whatever. Anyways, obviously I like this better when it's performed, but as I don't actually want to post a video of myself performing it, I'm giving you the text. We were supposed to write about a controversy, which I didn't quite do, but I'm pretty happy with the result. Obviously there's a lot of things in here that I put in to convey that it was a believable character speaking, but it looks really annoying in writing, so ignore the "like"'s and the "you know"'s. Without further ado, here it is...
You know that famous poet? Kabir? Yeah, he inspired me a lot. He’s Indian, I think, but there’s a lot of different stories about how he was born, and where he was born and stuff. Some people think he was Muslim, but other people think he was like, rejected from Islam or something. Anyways, he says in one of his poems, something like “The Self forgets itself.” That really hits me, you know? I feel like he really knew what he was talking about. Like, we keep wandering around like we’re the most important people ever, but in reality, we don’t matter at all. Like, people halfway across the world couldn’t care less about us, you know what I’m saying? But we forget that. “The Self forgets itself.” Yeah, he knew.
And what really gets me, you know, is that everything he said, it’s true. And that’s not really the amazing part. What’s amazing is that it’s true after all this time. Isn’t that kinda crazy? Like, how did he know all the way back then, that the world would still have the same problems now? And this guy was like, back in the 15th century or something! I’m telling you, it’s incredible stuff.
It really bugs me, this whole thing about everyone thinking they’re so important. It’s like, shut up, you know? You aren’t important, I’m not important, nobody cares about us, so stop being so full of yourself! They do these experiments, you know, called stuff like “Six Degrees of Separation”. But it isn’t true. I mean, sure, it might be true that we all know each other through six degrees of separation, but who cares?
In the long run, who cares if we are connected to someone through someone else? We’re just so full of ourselves that we don’t get that the world isn’t about us, you know? Like, it’s like the way we’re seeing it is: (draws a circle in the air) here’s the world, (points to self), and here’s ourselves. That’s the ratio in our heads. That’s how small the world is to us. But everyone else’s lives don’t revolve around how they’re connected to us…
I didn’t used to think this, you know. It didn’t used to bother me that I only thought of myself, because at one point in time, it was every man for himself. But I hate that now. I realized, you know? I realized that it doesn’t work. Because I care about other people, you care about other people, we all care, and if we didn’t, well damn, that would suck. I tried to follow that, every man for himself, but it didn’t work out all that well.
(chokes a little on the words) Because you know, when my grandma died, I cared. I couldn’t help it, I cared. It wasn’t some sob story, like she got cancer, or had a heart attack. It was just old age. And I wasn’t someone who couldn’t let it go, or couldn’t ever be happy again, but I cared. And it showed me something, because people change, you know?
So I never would have realized that it wasn’t about the self, and it wasn’t about me, and it wasn’t about someone else either. I mean, people are gonna cringe when I say this, but what it’s about, what it’s really about, is all of us. Can you imagine if I had just kept on being my cold, heartless old self, who only cared about my own success, my own failure? But people change. And thank God for that, that people change.
You know that famous poet? Kabir? Yeah, he inspired me a lot. He’s Indian, I think, but there’s a lot of different stories about how he was born, and where he was born and stuff. Some people think he was Muslim, but other people think he was like, rejected from Islam or something. Anyways, he says in one of his poems, something like “The Self forgets itself.” That really hits me, you know? I feel like he really knew what he was talking about. Like, we keep wandering around like we’re the most important people ever, but in reality, we don’t matter at all. Like, people halfway across the world couldn’t care less about us, you know what I’m saying? But we forget that. “The Self forgets itself.” Yeah, he knew.
And what really gets me, you know, is that everything he said, it’s true. And that’s not really the amazing part. What’s amazing is that it’s true after all this time. Isn’t that kinda crazy? Like, how did he know all the way back then, that the world would still have the same problems now? And this guy was like, back in the 15th century or something! I’m telling you, it’s incredible stuff.
It really bugs me, this whole thing about everyone thinking they’re so important. It’s like, shut up, you know? You aren’t important, I’m not important, nobody cares about us, so stop being so full of yourself! They do these experiments, you know, called stuff like “Six Degrees of Separation”. But it isn’t true. I mean, sure, it might be true that we all know each other through six degrees of separation, but who cares?
In the long run, who cares if we are connected to someone through someone else? We’re just so full of ourselves that we don’t get that the world isn’t about us, you know? Like, it’s like the way we’re seeing it is: (draws a circle in the air) here’s the world, (points to self), and here’s ourselves. That’s the ratio in our heads. That’s how small the world is to us. But everyone else’s lives don’t revolve around how they’re connected to us…
I didn’t used to think this, you know. It didn’t used to bother me that I only thought of myself, because at one point in time, it was every man for himself. But I hate that now. I realized, you know? I realized that it doesn’t work. Because I care about other people, you care about other people, we all care, and if we didn’t, well damn, that would suck. I tried to follow that, every man for himself, but it didn’t work out all that well.
(chokes a little on the words) Because you know, when my grandma died, I cared. I couldn’t help it, I cared. It wasn’t some sob story, like she got cancer, or had a heart attack. It was just old age. And I wasn’t someone who couldn’t let it go, or couldn’t ever be happy again, but I cared. And it showed me something, because people change, you know?
So I never would have realized that it wasn’t about the self, and it wasn’t about me, and it wasn’t about someone else either. I mean, people are gonna cringe when I say this, but what it’s about, what it’s really about, is all of us. Can you imagine if I had just kept on being my cold, heartless old self, who only cared about my own success, my own failure? But people change. And thank God for that, that people change.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Update
That's right, I did it. I revamped the blog. Just wanted to let you know (for no apparent reason). There is another, more meaningful post in the works, but I dont have the time to write it right now. Adios, until later...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Revampirization
This post is not about Twilight. That's right, I finally figured out that Twilight is a foolish pastime created for preteen girls who don't have a life and are desperate for some kind of lovin'. Actually, this pretty much describes me, except I am well into my teens.
This post was going to be about how I was thinking of revamping my blog, because the colors kind of make it hard to read, but I am too lazy and/or can't think of any colors to make it, and/or don't wnat to redo the header. Because it's purdy. To me.
However, I finally concluded that what needs revamping the most is actually just my life. Seriously. I need to become a completely different person, place myself in completely different circumstances, and do completely different things. Chances are, I would still be unhappy, but at least I would know that I just have problems, and that isn't going to change.
The fact of the matter is, although some days I may be happy, and some times of days are better than others, what I pretty much look forward to most in every day is...sleeping. And I recognize that this is pathetic, but I can't actually change it. We all (us juniors) have turned into some kind of robot species that goes to school, goes to sports practice (possibly), and does homework. And eats (sometimes), and sleeps (sometimes). It's really depressing, actually.
Now recognize when I say this that I am not actually depressed. That's right folks, ignore the emo colors of this blog and the fact that I write depressing poetry. At this exact moment in time, I am not depressed. However, my situation, and the situation of all of us (who read this blog regularly, maybe) is depressing. It is bleak, and the light at the end of the tunnel doesn't actually exist. I actually live my life knowing that I think it's bad now, but it can always get worse. And it will, next year. And next year isn't as bad as the year after that. And so on...
So, comment and tell me what you recommend I do, other than kill myself, because I have already deemed that it is not practical for me to do that at this particular time. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks that I lead a pathetic life, but chances are that's not true...it would, in a somewhat perverse way, make me feel better to know that others feel the same way.
Loves to all of you....
This post was going to be about how I was thinking of revamping my blog, because the colors kind of make it hard to read, but I am too lazy and/or can't think of any colors to make it, and/or don't wnat to redo the header. Because it's purdy. To me.
However, I finally concluded that what needs revamping the most is actually just my life. Seriously. I need to become a completely different person, place myself in completely different circumstances, and do completely different things. Chances are, I would still be unhappy, but at least I would know that I just have problems, and that isn't going to change.
The fact of the matter is, although some days I may be happy, and some times of days are better than others, what I pretty much look forward to most in every day is...sleeping. And I recognize that this is pathetic, but I can't actually change it. We all (us juniors) have turned into some kind of robot species that goes to school, goes to sports practice (possibly), and does homework. And eats (sometimes), and sleeps (sometimes). It's really depressing, actually.
Now recognize when I say this that I am not actually depressed. That's right folks, ignore the emo colors of this blog and the fact that I write depressing poetry. At this exact moment in time, I am not depressed. However, my situation, and the situation of all of us (who read this blog regularly, maybe) is depressing. It is bleak, and the light at the end of the tunnel doesn't actually exist. I actually live my life knowing that I think it's bad now, but it can always get worse. And it will, next year. And next year isn't as bad as the year after that. And so on...
So, comment and tell me what you recommend I do, other than kill myself, because I have already deemed that it is not practical for me to do that at this particular time. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks that I lead a pathetic life, but chances are that's not true...it would, in a somewhat perverse way, make me feel better to know that others feel the same way.
Loves to all of you....
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Way Home
This is a story I wrote for Englilsh, for our short story assignment. I don't really like it, because I didn't really know where to go with it, but there are parts of it that I do like, mostly the parts that aren't really to do with the plot. Even though there isn't really a plot. I don't really like the topic I chose either, because I think it's been kind of exhausted, but I couldn't come up with anything, so whatever. Anyways, read and enjoy (and comment)!
There are many ways to think of the way home. There is the bus ride towards your abode during which you can take notice of the arpeggios of your iTunes library, or the separated, filtered rays of the sunlight of Seattle. There is perhaps a mile long walk towards your neighborhood, which you travel daily without fail to step on each crack in the sidewalk and appreciate the leaves from trees you do not know the name of, or wishing for the comfort of a vehicle when the weather turns against you and there is snow melting through your canvas shoes. There is the travel of an plane that returns you to the country from whence you came, and in return for a small fortune you can enjoy the same B-rated movie as many times as the 18-hour journey allows you to. And perhaps when you reach your destination you can enjoy forcing your body to conform to the opposite of what it has been doing, eating and sleeping 12 hours in advance.
This is not the story of a bus ride, nor does it tell of me walking the mile towards my house. This story involves an 18-hour plane ride, but it is not the story of the plane. It is not the story told by the B-movies that I have seen 6 times in a row. This is the story of a homecoming, of the realization of a homeland, and of a culture that seeped its way into a body like the wet seeps into canvas shoes. There is some question as to what is a culture, so perhaps I should define what I mean. For me, my culture is defined by tradition, ritual, religion, family, country, and everything else that is a part of where you come from. In a melting pot country as America, culture is perhaps lost in the larger scheme of things, or maybe molded into a larger culture that has many smaller parts of culture from the many countries of contribution.
On a plane ride towards a country you have heard stories of, but never seen, the mind cannot help but jump to conclusions. I first saw in my mind the India of Bollywood films, with mansions the size of palaces and people in rich, brightly colored clothing dancing in the street. Then, I saw the India of foreign portrayal, of children with swollen stomachs begging for paise, and simply more people than the country could hold. In between showings of Hidalgo, I imagined myself being confronted by my large extended family at the Bangalore airport, all waving madly and giving me the famous sideways Indian head nod that makes it impossible for the inexperienced individual to distinguish yes and no. I could see myself not understanding the rapid language that I had not heard around me since I was four or five. To put it simply, the concept of India was large, foreign, and frightening, with all the pull of a magnet drawn to its opposite charge.
Walking through the streets of the country I had never seen, which was one and the same as the country that had given me my life, I found what a homeland meant. It meant not being different from those around you, not being a foreigner or an immigrant, not looking like you don’t belong. I also found what my homeland was. It was not the India of Bollywood movies, nor was it the India of Slumdog Millionaire, it was India as I chose to see it, and that made all the difference. I had created myself a country in my mind, and now the country was responsible for breaking those barriers that had been formed between us.
Regardless of the fact that I didn’t know what to expect, the minute I stepped off of the plane that had been my home for two days, I felt a warmth inside of me, a knowing feeling that said this is it. There is a time when everyone recognizes themselves, and for me, it was when I saw 13 members of my extended family grinning madly at me from beyond the security checkpoint. It was the moment that I knew that there was no hiding place from a country that had been tattooed into the insides of my body, that exudes from my very being as a scent, a feel, a look. It was a realization that there really was no barriers between me and my homeland, only illusions that had been created by expectations and fears.
Once safely past the mob of potential taxi drivers and the drive home at breakneck speed amidst parking-lot-traffic, there was finally enough time to contemplate this country that had captured my heart, and yet I felt so strange in. There was a mood of casual disregard that was present in the faces and the actions of every native of India, the open friendliness and innocence that I could see everywhere I turned touched my heart, and gave me the feeling of pride I needed. It was a prize that had been given to me by my country. The generosity and welcome that I found in the Indian people made me know them, made them my countrymen, and gave me the knowledge that I was where I belonged.
The conflict that I had known all my life was resolved, the world righted itself to a position in which I could see how it was possible to belong to two different places. One was a house, and the other was home. One was the product of a bus ride or walk towards a neighborhood in which I reside, the other was a country with a pull so powerful that it brought me halfway across the world but made me feel at home. A culture that had wound its way around me and felt like an embrace, not a restriction, was now simply a part of my being, and the ties that bound me to my country were not to be severed. I had found the way home.
The Way Home
There are many ways to think of the way home. There is the bus ride towards your abode during which you can take notice of the arpeggios of your iTunes library, or the separated, filtered rays of the sunlight of Seattle. There is perhaps a mile long walk towards your neighborhood, which you travel daily without fail to step on each crack in the sidewalk and appreciate the leaves from trees you do not know the name of, or wishing for the comfort of a vehicle when the weather turns against you and there is snow melting through your canvas shoes. There is the travel of an plane that returns you to the country from whence you came, and in return for a small fortune you can enjoy the same B-rated movie as many times as the 18-hour journey allows you to. And perhaps when you reach your destination you can enjoy forcing your body to conform to the opposite of what it has been doing, eating and sleeping 12 hours in advance.
On a plane ride towards a country you have heard stories of, but never seen, the mind cannot help but jump to conclusions. I first saw in my mind the India of Bollywood films, with mansions the size of palaces and people in rich, brightly colored clothing dancing in the street. Then, I saw the India of foreign portrayal, of children with swollen stomachs begging for paise, and simply more people than the country could hold. In between showings of Hidalgo, I imagined myself being confronted by my large extended family at the Bangalore airport, all waving madly and giving me the famous sideways Indian head nod that makes it impossible for the inexperienced individual to distinguish yes and no. I could see myself not understanding the rapid language that I had not heard around me since I was four or five. To put it simply, the concept of India was large, foreign, and frightening, with all the pull of a magnet drawn to its opposite charge.
Walking through the streets of the country I had never seen, which was one and the same as the country that had given me my life, I found what a homeland meant. It meant not being different from those around you, not being a foreigner or an immigrant, not looking like you don’t belong. I also found what my homeland was. It was not the India of Bollywood movies, nor was it the India of Slumdog Millionaire, it was India as I chose to see it, and that made all the difference. I had created myself a country in my mind, and now the country was responsible for breaking those barriers that had been formed between us.
Regardless of the fact that I didn’t know what to expect, the minute I stepped off of the plane that had been my home for two days, I felt a warmth inside of me, a knowing feeling that said this is it. There is a time when everyone recognizes themselves, and for me, it was when I saw 13 members of my extended family grinning madly at me from beyond the security checkpoint. It was the moment that I knew that there was no hiding place from a country that had been tattooed into the insides of my body, that exudes from my very being as a scent, a feel, a look. It was a realization that there really was no barriers between me and my homeland, only illusions that had been created by expectations and fears.
Once safely past the mob of potential taxi drivers and the drive home at breakneck speed amidst parking-lot-traffic, there was finally enough time to contemplate this country that had captured my heart, and yet I felt so strange in. There was a mood of casual disregard that was present in the faces and the actions of every native of India, the open friendliness and innocence that I could see everywhere I turned touched my heart, and gave me the feeling of pride I needed. It was a prize that had been given to me by my country. The generosity and welcome that I found in the Indian people made me know them, made them my countrymen, and gave me the knowledge that I was where I belonged.
The conflict that I had known all my life was resolved, the world righted itself to a position in which I could see how it was possible to belong to two different places. One was a house, and the other was home. One was the product of a bus ride or walk towards a neighborhood in which I reside, the other was a country with a pull so powerful that it brought me halfway across the world but made me feel at home. A culture that had wound its way around me and felt like an embrace, not a restriction, was now simply a part of my being, and the ties that bound me to my country were not to be severed. I had found the way home.
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