From the deep dark sewage depths
the cavernous yawning jaw
rank breath shuddering
sucking
wild tongue searching finding groping
probing depths
murky secrets
slimy dark untold truths
a single spark swallowed but fights
it fights back against the crushing wave
of ignorance
of impulses aborted restrained
crammed under the tattered rug
and it grows fed by the darkness
a dark light
it blooms
shining petals
criss-crossing glinting beams
absorb the dark
the dark is fading surrendering
the light is taking over
grasping tendrils wrap around the darkness
the shape of darkness?
the light pulls deep
the mouth
the light has a mouth
oh dreadful mouth
and it too probes
reaches too far too much
finds the switch
seizes control
routines evaporate
pretensions fail
nerves jerk
bones gyrate
fingers jab up and down
a beautiful hatred
self-destructive bliss
the light is all
a puddle remains
once a deep dark and stormy sewer
vomit on the paper
misshapen masses
forms complex in disorganization
it dries
empty
what remains?
agony
freedom
multidimensional beauty
again the dark beauty
just an impression
a footprint of the awful terrible magnificent annihilating light
spawned from monsters
and the dangerous dark.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
Title? Je ne sais pas...
The sun is hiding from you behind a veil of moist gray
He cannot bear to view such brilliance
Fret not in his absence,
For his paltry rays of warmth are easily surpassed
By the fervent flames that course through my veins;
No quake could ever rock the earth quite so fiercely
As the uncontrollable tremors that wrack me;
No dam has ever denied a river more obstinately
Than the boulder that blocks up my breath;
No drum beats, no woodpecker drills so deafeningly
As the throbbing heart that seeks to flee my ribcage
at the slightest brush of your silken hair
across my parched skin
or the faintest hint of your gentle scent
passing by my starving nose
or the most fleeting glance from your piercing eyes
resting on my forlorn figure
A mere foot of peeling wood separates my fingers,
suddenly enervated,
From your achingly smooth hand;
Twelve agonizing inches remain of my journey;
my pilgrimage
The grooves in the plank between us
Have never been so deep, so dark, so dangerous.
Isn't it odd that I get inspired to write a love poem when I'm not in love?
He cannot bear to view such brilliance
Fret not in his absence,
For his paltry rays of warmth are easily surpassed
By the fervent flames that course through my veins;
No quake could ever rock the earth quite so fiercely
As the uncontrollable tremors that wrack me;
No dam has ever denied a river more obstinately
Than the boulder that blocks up my breath;
No drum beats, no woodpecker drills so deafeningly
As the throbbing heart that seeks to flee my ribcage
at the slightest brush of your silken hair
across my parched skin
or the faintest hint of your gentle scent
passing by my starving nose
or the most fleeting glance from your piercing eyes
resting on my forlorn figure
A mere foot of peeling wood separates my fingers,
suddenly enervated,
From your achingly smooth hand;
Twelve agonizing inches remain of my journey;
my pilgrimage
The grooves in the plank between us
Have never been so deep, so dark, so dangerous.
Isn't it odd that I get inspired to write a love poem when I'm not in love?
Monday, June 05, 2006
Summer Revisited
Well, we're a few days into summer vacation, and, as far as I'm concerned, summer itself. I've already started to rediscover "The Great Outdoors". I don't know why I ever spent all of my time locked up in my room (my stuffy, uncomfortably warm, rather stinky room; all of these are my fault) on the computer. This is Alpine Meadows park, by my house:
Broad, penetrating beams of warm sunlight splinter through ephemeral, wispy white clouds, bathing the crisply verdant grass of the soccer fields. The far-reaching light reveals two early patrons of the distant tennis courts at the end of the park opposite to the playgrounds. Nearby is a nearly abandoned baseball diamond; its morose batting cage traps only dust. Trees, domesticated by well-meaning suburbanites, ring the partially fenced perimeter of the entire park, filling in the gaps left by man. Two lonely soccer goals, coated with cracking white paint, stand guard over the pristine moment. These sentinels do not really understand that their timeless charge cannot be defended, yet the world appreciates their valiant effort all the same. In the middle of the park rises majestically its pride and joy: the playground.
The main contraption is a jumble of slides, steps, bars, tunnels, and poles, all painted an ostentatious orange that hopes in vain to rival the sun. At the other end of the smallish mulch-filled area stands the understated swingset. Wanting no part of its brother's grandiosity, it is happy to remain a simple frame carrying four modest swings. Of course, the swingset believes that it is the real center of the park and is willing to let its brother bask in glory; it knows that the park's visitors see beneath appearances and only pretend to adore the orange monstrosity. After all, does not the swingset draw the love of both the smallest infants and the artificially indifferent teenagers? It, for one, would much rather receive affection born of respect than of pity.
One side of the playground is shared by a humble wooden shelter housing a few decrepit picnic tables, adorned with a decade's worth of signatures, notes, and other harmless graffiti. On the short ramp connecting the concrete floor of the shelter with the playground, errant mulch mixes with granules from the nearby sandbox. Rising above the perilous shifting sands of the fifty square foot box are two shovel-dumper combinations, the same color as the playground, mounted to swivel seats. Adjacent to the shelter on the opposite side, a once-proud shed of dark brown corrugated steel, padlocked in the front and badly dented by an inebriated motorist in the back, hides the games and supplies that will soon occupy and amuse the children dropped off by their parents at the day camp. From the final side of the shelter, a long, sinuous gravel pathway leads up to the tiny parking lot on the side street.
The colors of the scene are few and powerful. High noon approaches and the moment is nearly lost. The sun, smiling fatherly over his domain, beats on.
Broad, penetrating beams of warm sunlight splinter through ephemeral, wispy white clouds, bathing the crisply verdant grass of the soccer fields. The far-reaching light reveals two early patrons of the distant tennis courts at the end of the park opposite to the playgrounds. Nearby is a nearly abandoned baseball diamond; its morose batting cage traps only dust. Trees, domesticated by well-meaning suburbanites, ring the partially fenced perimeter of the entire park, filling in the gaps left by man. Two lonely soccer goals, coated with cracking white paint, stand guard over the pristine moment. These sentinels do not really understand that their timeless charge cannot be defended, yet the world appreciates their valiant effort all the same. In the middle of the park rises majestically its pride and joy: the playground.
The main contraption is a jumble of slides, steps, bars, tunnels, and poles, all painted an ostentatious orange that hopes in vain to rival the sun. At the other end of the smallish mulch-filled area stands the understated swingset. Wanting no part of its brother's grandiosity, it is happy to remain a simple frame carrying four modest swings. Of course, the swingset believes that it is the real center of the park and is willing to let its brother bask in glory; it knows that the park's visitors see beneath appearances and only pretend to adore the orange monstrosity. After all, does not the swingset draw the love of both the smallest infants and the artificially indifferent teenagers? It, for one, would much rather receive affection born of respect than of pity.
One side of the playground is shared by a humble wooden shelter housing a few decrepit picnic tables, adorned with a decade's worth of signatures, notes, and other harmless graffiti. On the short ramp connecting the concrete floor of the shelter with the playground, errant mulch mixes with granules from the nearby sandbox. Rising above the perilous shifting sands of the fifty square foot box are two shovel-dumper combinations, the same color as the playground, mounted to swivel seats. Adjacent to the shelter on the opposite side, a once-proud shed of dark brown corrugated steel, padlocked in the front and badly dented by an inebriated motorist in the back, hides the games and supplies that will soon occupy and amuse the children dropped off by their parents at the day camp. From the final side of the shelter, a long, sinuous gravel pathway leads up to the tiny parking lot on the side street.
The colors of the scene are few and powerful. High noon approaches and the moment is nearly lost. The sun, smiling fatherly over his domain, beats on.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Where I'm From
I’m from the pink bunny suit,
from the Blue Bunny bucket.
(Cookies and cream.)
I’m from fresh-cut yellowing grass
and the splintered deck,
from fading blacktop baking in dog-day sun.
I’m from the lonely maple tree
resurrected and towering
(kingly?)
in the sea of could-have-been green.
I am from poetic warriors,
from sagacious poets
and valiant sages.
I am from righteous, holy honor
and crushing cruelty.
I am from corrupt freedom
and honest servitude.
I am from the teeming bazaar,
from heady, exotic spices
blending smoothly in the saturated air
and the primordial communal soul.
I am from nimble fingers
and tongues,
Weaving silk thread
and epics.
Somewhere
A raging sea collides with
an indomitable cliff,
battering the ancient, obstinate rock.
I am from that sand,
from here and there.
Belonging nowhere
but where the waves take me.
from the Blue Bunny bucket.
(Cookies and cream.)
I’m from fresh-cut yellowing grass
and the splintered deck,
from fading blacktop baking in dog-day sun.
I’m from the lonely maple tree
resurrected and towering
(kingly?)
in the sea of could-have-been green.
I am from poetic warriors,
from sagacious poets
and valiant sages.
I am from righteous, holy honor
and crushing cruelty.
I am from corrupt freedom
and honest servitude.
I am from the teeming bazaar,
from heady, exotic spices
blending smoothly in the saturated air
and the primordial communal soul.
I am from nimble fingers
and tongues,
Weaving silk thread
and epics.
Somewhere
A raging sea collides with
an indomitable cliff,
battering the ancient, obstinate rock.
I am from that sand,
from here and there.
Belonging nowhere
but where the waves take me.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
L'été
I think now I'll go with a reason that I feel like holding on to this year with all the strength I can. I'm afraid of summer. Seriously. I love the warm weather (hate the hot weather, though) and all the green and the long days and staying up almost as long as I want and waking up basically whenever I want and writing run-on sentences and not worrying about the consequences (not really). But.
I'm afraid of summer because of the boredom. Last summer, my first horribly tedious one, my brother, six years older than me, had an internship here in Rockford. I never could take advantage of his driving capabilities because he was only home in the evenings. This summer, he has an internship at a firm just outside of NYC. That means three more months of just a house holding only my parents and me.
Parents: the other reason I'm afraid of summer. Summer reminds me how much different I really am from most of the other people in my class. Of course, there are many instances where I treasure and value some of those differences. However, I find it rather hard to cope sometimes with my parents' draconian rules and irrationally backed beliefs (mainly generalizations) about girls, dating, sex, and "American" culture in general. If I were in a particularly frustrated mood, I might say that my parents believe that if you hug a girl, she will eventually get pregnant and your life will be ruined. In actuality, they are intensely worried about a slippery slope sort of deal. My real problem lies in their approach to the situation, which is truly a serious one. It all boils down to East vs. West. The "Western" idea is that trust in a child with enough education will eventually result positively. The "Eastern" idea is to completely seclude the child from all "negative" things until the very last moment possible. In other words, instead of trusting that they have supplied me the tools to resist foolish temptation, my parents have decided to eliminate temptation altogether.
I'm afraid of summer because of the boredom. Last summer, my first horribly tedious one, my brother, six years older than me, had an internship here in Rockford. I never could take advantage of his driving capabilities because he was only home in the evenings. This summer, he has an internship at a firm just outside of NYC. That means three more months of just a house holding only my parents and me.
Parents: the other reason I'm afraid of summer. Summer reminds me how much different I really am from most of the other people in my class. Of course, there are many instances where I treasure and value some of those differences. However, I find it rather hard to cope sometimes with my parents' draconian rules and irrationally backed beliefs (mainly generalizations) about girls, dating, sex, and "American" culture in general. If I were in a particularly frustrated mood, I might say that my parents believe that if you hug a girl, she will eventually get pregnant and your life will be ruined. In actuality, they are intensely worried about a slippery slope sort of deal. My real problem lies in their approach to the situation, which is truly a serious one. It all boils down to East vs. West. The "Western" idea is that trust in a child with enough education will eventually result positively. The "Eastern" idea is to completely seclude the child from all "negative" things until the very last moment possible. In other words, instead of trusting that they have supplied me the tools to resist foolish temptation, my parents have decided to eliminate temptation altogether.
The biggest problem: I'm too afraid to stand up to my parents. I'm deathly afraid of the consequences; yet, I have no idea what they might be. When your mother informs you that you will totally betray her and, for all intensive purposes, kill her by marrying someone whose family doesn't speak the same major Indian language that yours does, you worry.
So why am I afraid of summer? I'm afraid of hearing and reading about all the normal things that my friends do outside of school. I'm afraid of the painful feeling of longing for normalcy. (Yet I don't want to be normal.) I'm afraid of facing the truths of my life and even more afraid of accepting them without a fight.
Summer? Please be gentle on me.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Finally
Yeah, I just remembered that I had one of these. What was it for? Hmmm...let's see...oh yes, to "practice my writing skillz." I mean, "skills." Tobi must be getting to me.
I've got to say, this layout is pretty nice and clean. It appears that, sometimes, less actually is more and not just a clichéd adage that bothers me from time to time. I'm digging this font, too. Very nice. All very nice....
I've spent the last ten minutes staring at the screen and trying to think of an important yet humble topic upon which to expound.
Yikes! Less than a couple months left of school! The end of the school year most definitely stealth-attacked me from behind. Though there are reasons that I want to stay in school this year for a little bit longer, the reasons that I can't wait for sophomore year definitely outweigh them.
Number one on the list: I won't have to sit through another one of Ms. McFadden's classes. Plus, next year, if all goes as planned with scheduling, I'll get to have Mr. Sabathne and MR. LONGHENRY. That's like losing a penny and finding two golden dollars, because Sabs and Mr. L are each 100 times better than Zena the Warrior Unionist (Ms. McFadden for those who don't know).
Maybe the next time I remember my understated blog friend, I'll continue this "list".
Au revoir, mes amis
I've got to say, this layout is pretty nice and clean. It appears that, sometimes, less actually is more and not just a clichéd adage that bothers me from time to time. I'm digging this font, too. Very nice. All very nice....
I've spent the last ten minutes staring at the screen and trying to think of an important yet humble topic upon which to expound.
Yikes! Less than a couple months left of school! The end of the school year most definitely stealth-attacked me from behind. Though there are reasons that I want to stay in school this year for a little bit longer, the reasons that I can't wait for sophomore year definitely outweigh them.
Number one on the list: I won't have to sit through another one of Ms. McFadden's classes. Plus, next year, if all goes as planned with scheduling, I'll get to have Mr. Sabathne and MR. LONGHENRY. That's like losing a penny and finding two golden dollars, because Sabs and Mr. L are each 100 times better than Zena the Warrior Unionist (Ms. McFadden for those who don't know).
Maybe the next time I remember my understated blog friend, I'll continue this "list".
Au revoir, mes amis
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