The day we learned

Dear Readers,
I'm learning that its very difficult for me to process things. One of my favorite professors is my poetry teacher, Dr. Willis. He publishes poetry pretty frequently, and most of his recent work has been about the Tea Fire - his house burned down. I think poetry is a beautiful way to express your deepest thoughts, since many of the things we know about ourselves are only snapshots. While the fire was a traumatic experience, I have yet to put into words some of the most difficult emotions I face. I think one of the things I've always wanted to have an outlet for is the experience of dad's cancer - being able to put that experience down into words, and words that mean something to me, has been one of the hardest things. And while I don't feel like I've hit the mark in this poem, I've come the closest so far in remembering that experience.

So here it is; the rough draft of my mental snapshot:

The day we learned

Joy eluded us in that moment,
slipped softly out the glass doors
without so much as a parting
word. I remained with the cold sunlight
that somehow pushed its way
through the black glazed windows.

Chrysanthemums exploded outside the cement,
blinding pink, a defense mechanism against
sticky-fingered guests. They drooped a little
with the March heat. Water would have helped.

That day we learned that germs
can’t travel through white, and hospitals
beds can resemble coffins under the right
circumstances. But he wouldn’t go in one,
wouldn’t stop the day for a moment
to take off the stiff lab coat
and enjoy the weight of the full
April sun which burst through
my open windows where I sat
thinking not of philosophy, nor
the fact that my yellow roses were
starting to wilt from lack of water.

In the Morning Light

Dear Readers,
Doesn't everything look better in morning light? I'm convinced that I could wake up early every day of my life and be satisfied just because of the light in the morning. I believe it was Henry David Thoreau who talked about how men would bottle up morning air because it was so healthy and sell it to those who slept in late. Everything seems more attainable in morning light; you have a whole 24 hours ahead of you, but only a few hours to enjoy the sense of a fully-realized day before the sun moves and all you have is a blue sky and hours of work ahead of you.

But readers, even better is the morning light that is obstructed by gray clouds. Its the perfect excuse to stay home and enjoy a good book with a steaming cup of tea while watching the rain. That may be one of my favorite things on earth to do. Unfortunately though, you need a good window, something which I currently do not have. I have a window. It, sadly, doesn't look out onto a picturesque lake, or mountains, or even a meadow. No, I get to see all of the other apartments. Yay. But readers, I have a dream that one day a lake or mountain (or better - both!) will be outside my window one day, covered in sheets of rain so I can have that beautiful light bathing my surroundings and be in the moment when life seems to be taking its time so I can have that one perfect day of reading/tea drinking.

But for now, all I can do is turn off all the lights in my room (my house-mate just came in and told me it was like a cave) and listen to the sound of the rain hitting the pavement outside my window.

Happiness

Dearest Readers,
Here's the poem I'm turning in tomorrow for my first creative writing assignment; tell me what you think!


Happiness

I bought a silk flower today,
tugged it out of the bouquet
packed into the white bucket
of the thrift store on 22nd.

It now catches sun in the window
of my apartment. I hope it’s happy
there, among the grime and dead
flies of another year that has gone
by without a breath of fresh air.

Maybe one day it will shake the dust
from its coral feathers - wake to see
that only the glass keeps it safe, confined
from the wind and earth and life
that sprouts outside the musty white
apartment where it now sits, just
waiting to be awakened.

The Day the Circus

Dear Readers,
I really am more creative at night! My best poems always come to me when I'm already in bed with the light turned off. But, I always get the best results when I actually get back up and finish the poem instead of waiting until the morning - so here it is: my latest poem! I hope you all like it, its not quite like anything I've done before. I've been reading a lot of TS Eliot and his strange rhythm and rhyme is definitely at work in this poem. Its also a very dire poem, but don't read very far into that: I've just been reading the Waste Land which is very dire. So don't call me and want to talk about this "depression" because I'm actually really enjoying my time at Westmont so far.....all 2 days of it. Also to note: this is a very very VERY rough version of the poem. I actually just completed it a couple seconds ago, so this is in no way going to be a magnum opus or anything. OK, have to go (back) to bed! Here's my poem: (PS - feedback is MUCH appreciated!)


The day the Circus came to town

The day the circus came to town
the masses came in droves,
flocked like crows
to see the freaks and clowns.
The crunch of gravel hung
between the jaded streets,
a symphony of feet
herded on by weary patrons.

But now the red tents are
gone, and the tired streets look
beaten in this light. I might look
that way too, if I screamed
“suburban”
all day long.

Look again
Look again

The streets are full of hollow men
and girls in pink tights say
If only I looked like them
to the gaunt faces of pages
who only stare back
from their windowless cages.

And now the day packs up
and leaves us only with black,
the top hat
of a day which rests on nothing but
weary bones and a sweaty forehead.

The Agony of Moving

Dear Readers,
It's that time of the year again. The furniture seems to be moving closer, the road looks like its trying to become a gate, the trees wave goodbye. That's right peeps, its moving time! But its not only moving time; its the "I'm moving into my own apartment, need to buy a whole new set of supplies" moving. aka, I'm trying to find a TV at the lowest price possible.

But its not only that readers. Its packing up the life I left behind in August, trying to find those scattered remains from this summer in the boxes and cabinets of a house that still feels a little strange to be staying in. Not only has it been tiring - almost everything has been buried under a mountain of my sister's stuff - but its also been a little sad. Sad because I have to unearth everything, that this will be my last trip down to Santa Barbara for the purpose of moving into Westmont, maybe that from this point on "home" will be a transitive place. And its scary to think about. Which might be the reason why those boxes have remained underneath the house, gathering dust among the other obscurities and faded memories that have long since gone out of style.

They're all in the car at home now, awaiting my final goodbyes to family and friends and that sound of the key in the ignition. Maybe this is just life; those final moments in which the inevitable is coming, yet you are holding onto those slippery seconds like they are your last tie to life. Hm.