I am pathetic...Poetry Cookies

So I am a failure...and I knew it would happen, I did. I suck at the blogging thing! In fact, did I ever mention that I've literally tried to blog three different times in the last few years, and everyone has ended the way this blog has: in silent failure. Even worse, is this one actually counts for something–a grade that actually has a major importance to me.
I'm going to challenge myself therefore, to win at life! Or actually just try and blog every day (maybe every second day) from now one until the end of this semester! Can I do it? Possibly! Will I? Hopefully! What are the actual chances? Pretty pathetic but still!
I don't know what it is that's so daunting about blogs that puts me off...I love writing! And I never shut up, so you'd think it'd be an epic adventure for me.
The struggle, I believe, is the realization of how many words I waste doing what I am now–blabbing. I can always find a reason why not to blog, but I find very few to justify why I should. Who wants to hear my words anyways? I mean, most days people just block me out when I talk, so why would they go out of their way to read my pure, garbage worthy ramblings that add up to very little.
I don't know. I don't know.

So here is my try, my last sprint at the race of posting a solid amount to this blog–enough not to fail and maybe even get a decent mark. And, on top of that, prove that I am capable of sticking to something for once. And I'm sorry, Kevin (if you even read this), but if I do continue with this blogging thing for some magical reason, it will slowly transform into a more prose than poem kind of thing.

Class is soon so I'm going to end this pity party with a summary of some of the ideas I've been souping up in my broth-like brain for the community poetry project (and no jacking any of my ideas people though I'm sure my classmates are very capable of coming up with much better things). I've already talked one of my friends into attacking the bookstores and libraries around Vernon with :) now I hope to convert a few more of my friends into temporary criminals (if hiding bad poetry in books is equivalent to a crime...which I think it is). On top of that, I hope to create stickers to put everywhere and anywhere I want. A little boring, right? But here's the brilliant, possibly going to fail bit that I'm excited about...

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yes #hashtag hashtags! I want to create a very unique hashtag to put at the end of the poems and leave instructions to upload a photo on instagram if you were one of the unlucky souls to receive my gift of words...will people do it? I have no clue! Would it be epic if they did? YES! Am I tempted to write that by uploading the photo they have an opportunity to win an awesome (non-existent) prize so that more people actually might do it?! YES YES YES! but I have not decided yet how very criminal I hope to be so the last bit may not happen :D Now, I must write some poems to put on the stickers/bookmarks/slip in graffiti pages!

Now I must also review some of the class textbooks...(which I mostly hated :O sorry Kevin, again)

Super Donair kind of Experiment (I sold all the soup)

So today in Kerry's class we looked at some cool closed cpoetry–sorry, poetry. Anyways, I really liked a lot of the forms so I wanted to quickly post what I wrote in the 8 minutes we were left to experiment with...going to work in like ten so I'm going to have to write fast, edit and add to the blog later. See, I'm that excited about trying some of these out!
Also, kind of upset because I waited on a table of eight today and managed to sell 7 of them the soup special...leaving no beef soup for me! I may have a super donair when I get back to work, and though it is not the soup for soul, it is pretty damn good. :)

Remember, this is rough!!

I have trouble sleeping,
voices crawl along pillows
leaving stains on the satin.
His red wine kisses–toxic,
arms strong and bent like bars 
and caging me to his heart.
He leaves the window wide–
to let in my nightmares.
I close my drunken eyes,
remaining wide awake.

Remaining wide awake,
I close my drunken eyes
to let in my nightmares.
He leaves the window wide;
and caging me to his heart,
arms strong and bent like bars.
His red wine kisses, toxic,
leaving stains on the satin.
Voices crawl along pillows,
I have trouble sleeping.

I will be BACK...after I work.

Beef Soup and Fresh Breadsticks

So lately I've been working like a crazy poor person (aka student) at a great restaurant in Vernon, where I not only get amazing (Actually ah-mazing) soup for lunch on split shifts, but I also get to work with some great people and SURPRISE! I love my job...
That being said, I haven't had a lot of time to go through poetry, or view other peoples blogs/write comments. I'm hoping this reading break will let me catch up, because from the posts I have seen my classmates have been posting some pretty neat things. (Not as neat as soup though, of course).

So for this post, I thought I'd talk about Anne Sexton and her poems that made me believe I may develop some interest in the genre. Anne Sexton wrote mostly 'confessional' poetry that reflected on her struggles with mental illness and her relationships. She tried to commit suicide many times, until she finally succeeded at the age of 45 by locking herself in her garage and running her car. Her story is a sad one, and her internal struggles with depression are reflected in her works. This is what initially drew me to her poetry.

I've always have had an interest in metal health, especially depression. Actually, one of my dreams, besides becoming an author, is to go back to school later on and earn a degree in Psychology. My interest began as a child due to members of my close and extended family struggling with mental disorders such as Seasonal Affective Disorder, depression, and schizophrenia. As I grew up, I had to witness my friends struggle through high school, many of them talking to councillors and being diagnosed as having SAD or depression. Of course, the answer for the doctors and councillors was to prescribe 15/16 year olds meds to 'make them feel better'. I do believe in medicine, but I'm a big advocate of not treating mental illness as diseases that can be solely biologically 'cured'. After all, I've never heard of anyone truly being 'cured' of their depression.

Now I'm rambling. Anyways, so the point is, I'm highly interested in writings not only about mental illness, but from writers who've struggled with mental illness as well. Sadly, Anne Sexton was one of those amazing artists that lost the battle. Yet, I believe her work to be some of the greatest examples I've read of examinations of the struggle with depression and how it infects more than the mind, but the body and the world around oneself as well.

Below I'll post two of my favourite poems by Anne:

Love Letter Written in a Burning Building

I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.

I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not.  Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed -- well, the sheets have turned to gold --
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.

As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn't yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren't yielding to pitch
I'd tell the whole story --
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story --
and shovel back our love where it belonged.

Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.

Wanting to Die

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. 

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.   

Then the almost unnameable lust returns. 

Even then I have nothing against life. 

I know well the grass blades you mention,   

the furniture you have placed under the sun. 

But suicides have a special language. 

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,   

have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,   

have taken on his craft, his magic. 

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,   

warmer than oil or water, 

I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. 

I did not think of my body at needle point. 

Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.   

Suicides have already betrayed the body. 

Still-born, they don’t always die, 

but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet   

that even children would look on and smile. 

To thrust all that life under your tongue!— 

that, all by itself, becomes a passion.   

Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, 

and yet she waits for me, year after year,   

to so delicately undo an old wound,   

to empty my breath from its bad prison. 

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,   

raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,   

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, 

leaving the page of the book carelessly open, 

something unsaid, the phone off the hook 

and the love whatever it was, an infection.

Meyerpires and Bear Love

In class tonight I found the topic of the Governor's General Awards and the controversy over When Everything Feels like the Movies winning very interesting (kay, maybe only kinda!). First of all, while I have no idea whether or not the book is something I'd enjoy reading, let alone think is well written, I am happy that the book that won isn't a piece of work written by some prude who wants to ignore the fact that young people do NOT live in bubbles (at least, not the majority of them).

Being only nineteen, I still enjoy a well written YA novel, but also find the genre to be very limiting due to the stigma associated with writing about larger, key happenings in life that are considered too 'mature' for younger adults. In high school, I really had a hard time finding books targeted at my age group that actually interested me, or helped me connect to the world I was growing up in. I had books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower that touched on some of the subject matter that mattered to me, but for that one slightly shiny gem there were a hundred trash-ridden novels. And, of course, the few books I loved such as Perks were often listed as 'banned' in the States. Parents in Kamloops at one point tried to ban the book from a classroom, though from the reasoning it appeared they hadn't even read it! Most often the books that tried to explain topics like sex, drug use, mental illness, and abuse were dumbed down and censored to the point that there really was no point. I don't believe a book has to discuss taboo or controversial topics to be well written or interesting, but I do believe that if the author chooses to cover those topics it shouldn't read like some terrible informercials about 'why drugs are bad' or 'how depressed people are really sad'. 

There's my rant. I could go on forever, maybe, maybe not, but I'm lazy.

Also, if you want to check out something crazy that won the Governor General's Award way back follow this link...I swear you will not be disappointed. Maybe confused, or shocked. But hey, it's Canada and we like our furry animals, right?

"What the actual fuck Canada?" Love between a bear and a woman...

Also, not really about poetry still but found this on urban dictionary! Rather interesting...Leads me to wonder if one day I'll write something so terrible that people actual create their own vocabulary to make sure people know just how bad I failed.

Oh Steph and her Meyerpires

Funny thing is, I found that link while trying to find how to spell pyre...because I am honestly that terrible at spelling, yes!

Startings with Peas and Ham

Here is another poem I've been starting (and may never be ending). It's been really difficult for me to write lately, which sucks of course when I have not one, but two creative writing classes. I need inspiration to start falling from the sky the way this nasty frozen ice rain has. I wish there was a direct connection between my brain and laptop, that way I could just spew this crud out in the shower or the car, that good crud that rushes out at the least opportune times. Or that moment as you're falling asleep and all this awesome stuff (that may actually be total bullshit failure in the light of day) floats into you head but you've already turned off the lights and told your body to fade into the weight of sleep. Too many moments like that for me.

Also, ate some great pea soup today.

My ribs ache,

their marrow sucked and savored by

the invisible monsters under my bed

My back aches,

the spine’s ridges played with

hammers and nails from Brother’s rusted toolbox

My legs ache,

the femurs shattered and laid

out like seeds along Mother’s blood poppies

My mind aches,

its thoughts twisted and perverted from

the whispers Father left along the stained pillows

I ache, I ache

It had great hunks of ham in it; ham with that tender fat run through that gives this bad-for-you-but-totally-worth-the-poison flavour.

Videogram

The last couples nights I've been going through different playlists that some random people in possibly far off (or possibly close) places have put together. And lucky for me, in between the many acoustic playlists made up of mostly One Direction songs, I managed to find some gems in there for relaxing music I enjoy thinking to...or sometimes just not thinking.
I wanted to link some of the tracks to this page, for others to check out. Plus, I usually manage to completely blank on a song when I go to find it again so this way I have some of them listed for later findings :) Also, if you're really into playlists and hearing music that you may not regularly listen to, 8tracks.com is an awesome site that you can input keywords that lead you to playlists labeled as such. For example, they have lots of 'studying' playlists...or there's an actual label for 'weed'...as well as 'smoke'; which is kinda funny looking amongst all the mood keywords.

Daughter-Still

(This is just a really lovely song as I mentioned in my other post; and I love the music video as well)

Sleeping at Last-I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) Cover

(I really love this cover, as I feel they reworked the song into something beautiful...and oddly enough I don't automatically think Terry Fox when I hear this version)

Tom Odell-I Know

(Tom Odell is just amazing. Let's leave it at that.)

Pink Mountaintops-While We Were Dreaming

(Great song, terrible band picture. I like being able to actual make out all the lyrics and find them to be very beautiful, but at the same time they blend into the music well so they don't scream at you)

Oldies and Lentils

I have a lot of poems from last year that I had been working on as a way to get out a lot of chronic thoughts, though they never really got to see much light or had a chance even to come to be anything substantial. I don't love these beginnings of possible poems, but having gone back to them many times over this last year I see a lot of skeletons that I believe have the potential to grow flesh. I've rearranged some words, discarded others, but still I don't know where I want these starts to end. Hopefully I'll get to work through them some more for this creative writing class, as I'd like to see what they could be (though I know that the majority of what I'll create will be more a mutant of thoughts than actual poetry). So far, I absolutely hate the first two stanzas of the first poem (that being said, I also don't like much of the other lines), but hey, figured they give me some place to start.




At the time I started writing these last year I was spending a lot of time listening to Daughter's music such as Human and Shallows. One day I would like to write something (poem, short story, novel) around the band's song Still as I'm obsessed with it 'still'. I think I'll be spending a lot of time listening to their music again when reworking these beginnings.

Nameless #1

Because it’s us who cry,

Remaining for days without

A set of the truest of blues

Drained of your essence

Believe me when I cry,

Remembering senseless memories

Always just in reach of red blood

Devoured in their mechanical parts

Broken like a fractured cross

Releasing the bone-cracking tremors

As you dissipate alongside white Time

“Don’t leave,” of his own yearning

Bear with us as we pray

Reasoning the mind-numbing injustice away

Alive in each minute of peach skin

Dragged out of our mangled, ragged chests

Nameless #2

I’m afraid that those languid blue lakes

will stare with startling familiarity

out of the unknown face of a common stranger

Torn from our lives as the bereaving machine

ate at your tenderhearted body

I’m afraid that those sacred morsels of flesh

that fed us a heedless jubilation

are lost to the consuming bosom of our Earth

Burnt into ashes as the

And yeah, that's about it :)